By Rook or By Crook
by Eurydice11
Summary: Human AU. 1940, and the streets of NYC are the last place ex-hitman William Rook expected to find himself again, but one last job has demanded he return, one that pushes him into the path of a blonde singer named Buffy Summers. BS COMPLETE
1. Once Upon a Time in America

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  How do you have a previously when it's the first chapter?  All you need to know is that this will be totally AU, with no slayers and no vampires.  This is written in response to the Mobster Challenge over at the Spuffy Awards.  If you're interested in knowing the criteria for the challenge, then follow the link.  Otherwise, I'll be posting them at the end of the story (which looks, by all intents and purposes, to be 40 or so chapters away).

SUMMARY:  Sometimes, no matter how fast you run, your past always manages to catch up to you.  It's 1940, and the streets of Manhattan are the last place on earth ex-hitman William Rook ever expected to find himself again.  But one last job has demanded he return, a job that pushes him directly into the path of a certain blonde chanteuse named Buffy Summers, and nothing will ever be the same again…for either of them…

*************

Sometimes, really bad days can start with birds singing outside the window.

At first, he thought it was the neighbor's radio, and just buried himself under his pillow, burrowing his cheek against the cool cotton of his sheets in an attempt to drown out the noise.

It took him five minutes to remember the nancy boy neighbor was on vacation.

With a groan, Spike lifted his head, platinum locks tousled into errant curls, and squinted against the California sunshine that streamed in through his open window, scowling at the birds' nest he could see at the top of the telephone pole not six feet away.  One of these days, he thought irritably, I'm goin' to remember to close that soddin' window _before_ I go to sleep.

Thinking of it as falling asleep was generous, he knew, but at that exact moment in time, the last thing he needed was to consider the greater ramifications of what his passing out for the third night in a row might mean.  Better to just focus on the pounding behind his eyeballs, or the sandpaper that currently comprised his throat lining, or even the fact that he'd slept in his last pair of clean trousers so now looked like something that had been lost at the bottom of a linen basket for the past century.  It didn't help, of course, that the incessant chirping from outside was beginning to sharpen into long, pointed needles that were being driven through his eardrums, pricking his brain into shock with each shrill note, scraping down his spine until it felt like each vertebrae was going to be scraped raw from the tonality.

The gun from the nightstand was in his hand before he could think, its single shot rupturing the morning calm to shatter the upper pane of the window.  As he'd intended, the bullet went low, missing the nest to imbed itself in the telephone pole, but the birds reacted exactly as he'd hoped, flying away in a dither that quickly left the room in silence.

Spike collapsed back onto the mattress, the gun dangling from his left hand over the side of the bed, his eyes fluttering closed.  He wouldn't have to worry about the noise getting reported.  Just chalk up another advantage to already livin' in a high-crime neighborhood, he thought grimly.  Fuck what Red and Ripper think.

The conclusion that sleep would not be returning, no matter how hard he might try, settled in his awareness like a lead weight, and Spike sighed as he rolled himself up into a sitting position.  Shower, he decided. I'll take a shower and that'll make me feel human again.  Or at least wake me up.  Hell, I'd settle for relatively conscious at this point.  Maybe a bit of the dog that bit me.  Yeah, that'll take the edge off…

The harsh jangle of the phone was almost as bad as the damn birds, and Spike was up like a shot, the gun dropped to his bed to be replaced by the receiver.  "What?" he barked into it.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!"

It was unnatural for anyone to be that chirpy at this hour of the morning, he thought, but the gaiety in Willow's voice was enough to smooth the roughest edges of his temper, pushing his eyes shut as he fell back against the bed.  "How do you know I wasn't already up?" he asked wearily.  "I could've been entertainin', or in the shower, or doin' naughty, naughty things that would make you blush brighter than your hair, Red."

"Because I was the lucky one stuck on the stinky end of your feet last night when you passed out," she said.  "And seeing as how you would sleep through the entire day if given half a chance, odds were pretty good that you'd still be in bed at ten a.m."  There was the slightest of hesitations, and he heard the faint doubt creep into her voice.  "You…_weren't doing anything…bad, right?"_

Spike sighed, rubbing his hand over his face as if that would slough the exhaustion from his brain.  "Just usin' my little chickadee for target practice again," he said.

He could almost see her shocked outrage through the phone line.  "Spike!  How many times have I told you to leave those poor birds alone?  They're defenseless little creatures, and I think the female is going to be laying eggs some time soon---."

"Relax, Red.  They're goin' to live to sing another day.  But don't be surprised if Ma Bell comes a-knockin', demanding I replace that bloody pole."

"Oh.  Well.  That's all right then."

"There a reason for this little wake-up call?  Or do you just take extreme pleasure in makin' sure I'm as miserable as possible by waking me out of my stupor?"

"We've got a new job.  I wanted to give you the heads up so that you'd be presentable when Giles and I showed up on your doorstep.  The last time you were that smoked and we came by, you almost blew Giles' head off."

She was probably right, but the problem was, he couldn't remember that particular incident.  Just would have to take her word for it.  Not like Red ever lied or anything.  Well, not to him, anyway.  "And this couldn't wait until tonight?"

"It's kind of an important one---."

"They're all important to the one doin' the hiring, pet.  Aren't you the one who keeps nattering on about the client, and the client's rights, and keepin' the client happy?  No reason this one can't wait until I pull myself together---."

"Spike, they're willing to pay us fifty large if we drop everything else we're doing to take this.  Half now.  Half when the job is over."

He'd been leaning over, scanning the floor for the cigarettes he had a funny feeling he'd knocked off the nightstand when he'd gone for his gun, and froze, head between his knees, as soon as she mentioned the money.  Fifty thousand dollars.  That was a lot of dosh.  He hadn't seen money like that since he'd gotten out of the game, and there was no way Red had _ever_ seen it.  Ripper probably had, but not since they'd hooked up, so it would certainly explain their eagerness to get started on it as soon as possible.

Slowly, Spike straightened, and did his best to keep his voice as even as possible.  "Gimme time to get slicked up, Red.  I'm feelin' like something the cat coughed up at the moment.  Be here in an hour?"

"With bells on."

As he set the phone back onto its cradle, his blue eyes were pensive as he stared at the peeling wallpaper opposite him.  Twenty-five now.  Twenty-five later.  That would clear a lot of debts.  Hell, that would clear _all_ his debts, as well as settle him up with Red and Ripper.  They deserved more than what they got by working with him, but bugger if he knew why they stuck around like they did.  He didn't want to argue with it, though.  The three of them made a good team, and he wasn't about to muck up the best professional arrangement he'd ever had by letting a bout of self-loathing take control of his head.  Wasn't worth the trouble it would cause.

Fifty thousand dollars.

A man could do a lot of damage with that kind of money.

*************

Her forehead fell to the hard wood with a muffled thud, her red hair tumbling across her cheeks.  "He said, be there in an hour," Willow said, her voice muted by the closeness of her mouth to the desk.

"Did he seem all right with it?  No…questions?"

She shook her head, not even bothering to lift it to see Giles gazing worriedly down at her.  "Nope.  Heard about the money and jumped on it, just like you said he would."

Absently, his hand dropped to her shoulder, patting it in reassurance.  "Good job, Willow.  Nicely done.  We may get out of this yet without having to tell him."

His words made her head jerk up, green eyes wide.  "Are you kidding me?" she demanded.  "Spike's going to know as soon as I open my mouth that I lied to him.  The only face that works on him is my resolve face, and somehow, I don't think that one's too appropriate for this particular situation."

He was pacing around the small office, circumventing the desk, studiously avoiding looking at the files that sat in front of his partner.  "You didn't lie.  You merely…didn't tell him the whole story."

"Oh, and that's just jake because Spike is _soooo_ good at discerning the finer points of _that_ argument."  Willow sighed, and shook her head.  "I hate this.  He's our friend.  He deserves to know everything about this job, not just the bottom line."

"You think I don't know that?"  His blue eyes were livid behind his spectacles and the young woman shrank back in the creaky chair as he thrust his hands into his deep trousers pockets.  The man Spike called Ripper could be just as dangerous as the bleached blond; she just sometimes forgot that in the face of his more intellectual demeanor.  

"I like this even less than you do," he continued, "but I'll be damned if I'm going to abuse our friendship by divulging that type of information if I don't need to.  It will only serve to make him feel guilty, and you know it."  At the darting of her eyes, he consciously exhaled, releasing the tension that had wound throughout his chest.  "If it makes you feel better, I promise to be on the square with him if he asks anything further.  I dislike lying to him as much as you do."

Her smile was brilliant as she straightened in her chair.  "Thanks, Giles.  And, who knows?  Maybe you're right.  Maybe the money will be enough for him to take it, no questions asked."

*************

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!"  Spike was prowling around the main living area of his apartment, limbs fraught with anger as his hands balled into useless fists at his sides.  Twin spots of color were high on his pale cheeks, his nostrils flaring from the vehement exhalations coming from his lungs.  Needless to say, he was pissed.  "It's in _New York?  You expect me to take a job in the Big bloody Apple when you __know I haven't been there since that whole mess with Nikki Wood?"_

On the worn-out couch, Willow crossed her ankles nervously, using the files in her lap both as a shield and as something for her shaking hands to hold on to.  She liked Spike, but he still managed to scare the crap out of her sometimes.  "We thought…you know…with the money and all, that maybe that might be one eensy weensy detail you'd be willing to overlook this time."  She bit her lip as she tried to smile, tugging her skirt down over her knees, only to feel it fade from her face when the blond stopped right in front of her, sapphire eyes glittering dangerously as he looked down at her.

"_One_ detail?" he said, his voice deceptively low.  

She felt her skin crawl.  She hated that tone of his voice.  Especially when it was directed at her.

"One detail?" Spike repeated.  His head tilted as he surveyed the stress rippling across the redhead's face.  "There is just so much wrong about this job that I can't even believe you've got the moxie to sit there and tell me I should take it."

"It's fifty thousand---."

"And if you remind me how much they're willin' to pay one more time, I swear I'm gonna go through and set fire to each and every one of your precious little files, Red, and then tie you down just so that you have to watch them go up in smoke."  He began pacing before her.  "New York's just a piece of it.  Since when do I take jobs that require me to blow a complete stranger down?  That's why I got out of the family business in the first place, or have you forgotten that little part of my history?"

"No, I haven't forgotten."

From his perch at the room's lone window, Giles cleared his throat, readying to speak for the first time since arriving a half hour earlier.  "Spike---," he started, only to be cut off when the blond whirled on him, his long finger pointing dangerously at the older man's chest.

"And _you_!" he exploded.  "_You of all people should know better than to be trusting a bunch of lawyers in this.  Who's been spouting the anti-establishment line for as long as I've known him?  Or, should I start thinkin' that tryin' to go legit means you're more Rupert than Ripper these days?  I'd lay good money that these Wolfram and Hart blokes would make Dru and her family look like Our Gang, so why on earth would you think I'd __ever be willin' to risk everything I've spent the last five years building here by takin' them up on this job offer?"_

With barely constrained frustration, Giles leapt from his seat and stalked past Spike, grabbing the uppermost file from Willow's unsuspecting hands.  "That's why," he barked in response, shoving it at the blond.

Spike's angry frown as he flipped the file open quickly graduated to bewilderment as his blue eyes scanned the print, paging through the innards with increasing slowness, occasionally going back to re-read something.  He couldn't even look up when he'd reached the last page.  "They've got my whole life in here," he muttered.  "Me and Dru…Prague…every job I ever did…"  When he finally lifted his eyes, the azure had paled, his face bleak.  "They even know about fuckin' Chinatown.  How the hell is that possible?  _Nobody knows about that, but me and that little bitch the family sent after me."_

The file dropped from his fingers, landing with a soft whisper on the edge of the couch, and Willow surreptitiously leaned over to pick it up.  She watched as he fell into his favorite chair, slumping into the broken springs, his untucked shirt riding up to reveal a thin line of his pale abdomen.  He had looked like hell when they'd arrived, freshly showered but in clothes that obviously hadn't seen an iron in a month, and she'd felt that familiar pang of worry settle between her eyes as she drank in the shadows lingering in his aspect.  He was working too hard, taking on clients even when they couldn't pay, pushing himself to limits further than she ever thought he could manage, and now to be hit with this…

"These shysters know their stuff," she said, and had to fight to keep the admiration out of her voice.  "All cross-referenced, and color-coded…"  She ducked her head under Giles' withering gaze.  "…and not really the point here," she finished quietly.

"So I'll just lay low for a bit," Spike said, suddenly fascinated by the torn cuticles on his right hand.  "Not like I haven't gone underground before.  They'll find someone else to do their job---."

"No, they won't," Giles said.  He hated doing this; in the past five years of working with Spike---as he insisted on being called these days---life had been good.  Maybe there were some lean times, but he admired the other Englishman's determination to make a clean breast of it, abandoning his lethal work with the crime family that had raised him in favor of more mundane and less remunerative detective work.  It didn't seem quite right that this would come back now to burn him.  "They want _you, Spike.  And they say that if you don't take the job, they'll make sure you get in dutch with the police for each and every thing in that file."_

"They can't."

"They will."

"Fuck 'em."

"Spike…"

"There's more."  She refused to look at Giles when his spectacled gaze burned into her, surprised at herself for speaking up in spite of his earlier warnings.  Even when Spike leaned forward, pressing his forearms into his knees, lowering his head to look at her through his lashes in that don't-mess-with-me look he'd probably patented as soon as he'd passed into puberty, Willow lifted her chin to stare him down.

"What kind of more?" he asked.

"What she means is…"  Giles sighed as he sat down on the arm of the couch.  So much for trying to keep the more sordid details away from him.  "…yours is not the only history they've dredged up. They've…found out about my involvement with Ethan Rayne.  They're threatening me with extradition if you don't do this."

"But we ran that wanker out of town after he double-crossed you on that smuggling scheme!  Didn't we fix it up so that Rayne was the only one linked to it?"

"We did.  That doesn't change the fact that these lawyers know about it now."

"I thought you didn't have to worry about gettin' the gate anymore."

"We also thought your history, as colorful as it is, was fairly safely guarded."

Long fingers ran through his hair, pulling at the closely cropped curls.  Five years.  It had been five, very long, very stressful, years since he'd walked away from the murder for hire that had been his entire life, leaving Dru to the new man in her bed, taking with him the guarantees he needed to make sure that old man Conti never came after him.  Going straight had seemed insurmountable at first, but then he'd met Ripper when he took a job in Los Angeles, and felt an instant affinity for his fellow Englishman.  Their backgrounds were as dissimilar as they could get---Giles' Oxford education was the natural extension of his upper-class upbringing, while Spike had done his book learning in between target practice sessions with Dru's old man---but their kindred spirits, the intellectual housed within a rebel framework, had bonded them right away.  The last thing Spike ever wanted was for Ripper to suffer as a result of his own past.

"I know some people," the blond finally said, staring at the threadbare carpet as if the answers were etched into its fibers.  "We can work it out so that they can't touch you---."

"They've got the scoop on me, too."  Her voice was soft, and held no recriminations, merely stating a fact she'd been anxious to share since they'd first made the call.

Spike's surprised gaze lifted, watching as Ripper's eyes closed, his hands wearily pulling his glasses from his nose.  "Willow…" the older Englishman murmured in resignation.

"No," she argued.  "You told me we'd tell if it came to this.  He knows about you.  He needs to know about all of it."

"What could they possibly have on you, Red?"

She had joined their small team at Giles' request.  Brilliant, able to adapt to any situation, Willow Rosenberg was the heart behind their operation, the one who sought to find the good in even the dirtiest jobs, the one who kept them grounded when it looked like things were flying out of their control.  Both men were fiercely protective of her, and the last thing Spike would've ever thought was that she had something dark in her history.

"What?" she bristled.  "You two are the only ones allowed to have a shady past?"

"You and shady?"  Spike's scarred eyebrow lifted.  "Not two words I would've normally associated together."  His mouth was grim.  "What is it?"

"Do you remember Oz?"

Spike frowned.  "He was that musician you were dating when I met you, right?"

She nodded.  "We didn't exactly…break up.  He kind of had to…leave the country.  There was this singer, Veruca---a real chippy, let me tell you---who started following him around, and sending him stuff.  He tried telling her to buzz off, but she wouldn't listen, and they got into this fight."  She chewed at her bottom lip.  "It was an accident.  He didn't mean to kill her, and I…I…made sure it all…went away."

"If it went away, why'd he blow town?"

"He didn't want me to get into trouble in case it came out what happened.  And somehow, these Wolfram and Hart people found it out.  I can go to jail for a whole bunch of crimes if they go to the cops."

His eyes were unreadable as he gazed at the pair of them.  His entire life had been spent between a rock and a hard place; now, all of a sudden, the rock was bloody Gibraltar and the hard place, the Great Wall of China.  He didn't care so much about his own past.  Somehow, he'd always known his day of reckoning would come.  And Giles, well…Giles was a grown man, with resources that still managed to surprise Spike, and he could take care of himself if it came down to it.

But Willow.  Not his Red.  In spite of her bravado and stiff upper lip, this would ruin her life for good, strip her of all her choices, and there was no way in hell he would be responsible for that.  Mucking up his life was one thing; mucking up hers was entirely different.

Collapsing back into the chair, Spike dropped his head against the cushion, closing his eyes.  "Give me the dope on the job again," he said quietly, all fight gone from his voice.

The look she exchanged with Giles, though relieved, was guilt-ridden as Willow opened one of the files on her lap.  "The mark was born Riccardo Scavuzzo, but when he came to America in fifteen, he changed it to Richard Wilkins, supposedly because it sounded less foreign.  He's only actually half-Italian.  His mother was English, and Wilkins was her maiden name---."

"Stick to the necessary facts, Red."

"Oh.  Right."  She fumbled with her notes.  "He started out small, but it didn't take him long to become one of the leading crime figures in New York.  They call him the Mayor, because basically, he runs the city.  He's widowed, with one son, Angelo, twenty-eight, but they call him Angel.  Supposed to be quite the ladies' man.  Father and son use a string of nightclubs to front their illegal operations."

"And now someone thinks the Mayor's gettin' just a tad too big for his britches and wants him out of the picture."  It was a statement of fact.  She'd already told him it was a hit.

"Yep."

"And he brassed off these lawyers?"

"No.  Someone else has ordered the hit."

"Who?"

Willow shrugged.  "We don't know.  Wolfram and Hart are just the middle men.  They haven't given us that information.  They said it wasn't important for us to know."

He didn't like it.  Everything about it was screaming danger to him, but with Ripper and Red's lives in the balance as well, Spike knew he didn't have a choice about the matter.  In his path to going straight, he'd still killed people, but only in the line of the job, and never someone who could land him in the pen or come back to haunt him later.  This was an out-and-out murder, of the head of a major crime family, on stomping grounds where Spike had left a lot of enemies scattered about when he'd left.  It was not going to be pretty.

"I'm goin' to need Harris," he finally said.  Time to get down to business.  "If I want any shot in coming out of this still breathing, we need a boatload more information than what those hired hacks have given us.  And for that, I'm goin' to bring Harris in."

Willow's eyes went wide.  "We haven't worked with Xander since he and Anya got hitched," she said.  "There's no way she's going to let him do this.  She hates that he worked for us when he did."

"Then she's goin' to have to deal with it 'cause there's no way in hell I'm goin' into this blind.  Harris sees everything.  And he'll agree if I ask him.  I know he will."

"You don't have to do that," Giles said quietly.  "I'll take care of getting Xander.  You…have enough to do."

Spike sighed.  "That I do, mate," he murmured.  "That I do."

For better or for worse---most likely, for worse---William Rook, currently known as Spike to his friends, was on his way back to New York City.

*************

"It's done."  There was a long pause from the other end of the phone line, and Lindsay McDonald frowned, wondering if perhaps he'd lost the connection.  "Did you hear me?" he repeated.  "I said, he took the job."

"And it's William Rook?  The dropper from the Conti family?"

"The one and the same."

A long exhalation from the other end.  "Good."

Scribbling distractedly on his notepad, Lindsay said, "Now, you're sure you want to use this guy?  He's gone legit, you know.  Well, mostly legit.  Not that he isn't good, but I'm sure we can locate someone more local to you---."

"No.  It has to be done by someone out of town.  If you've got him, then that's all that matters."

"Whatever you say."  A few more words, and he set the receiver back in its cradle, eyes shaded as he contemplated the files on his desk.  It had taken more background work than they usually handled for this type of job, but these were very powerful men who had hired his law firm.  Whatever they wanted, they got.

And they wanted this Spike.

To be continued in Chapter 2: The Lady from Nowhere…


	2. The Lady from Nowhere

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  The song, "I'll Never Smile Again," was written by Ruth Lowe and was recorded with Frank Sinatra in May, 1940.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Retired hitman William Rook, aka Spike, has taken a job to kill the NYC crime figure known as the Mayor, succumbing against his better instincts to blackmail tactics on the part of the law firm that has hired him…

*************

He didn't want to admit it to himself, but Spike had missed New York.

Maybe it was the smell---the exhaust from the daily traffic fading to a pungent undercurrent that tickled his nose, reminding anyone who cared to pay attention that this was a city that thrived on life teeming above and below its concrete floors.

Maybe it was the tactile darkness that coated his favorite corners of the island, layers of grit and sweat etching its history for those who walked the night, evaporating with the rising dawn as the sun broke over the jagged skyline.

Maybe it was the fact that New York City was the only place he knew where it was possible to both disappear and stand out, all depending on which side of the street one stood.

And maybe it was a combination of all of the above.

It was cooler here than in California, the beginnings of autumn nipping at the air, but Spike was oblivious to the slight chill as he sauntered down the sidewalk, his hands thrust deep into his pants' pockets.  If it wasn't for his hair, he would've disappeared into the shadows of the street, loose-fitting black clothing melding his form into nothing to anyone who might've paid attention.  Not that he was.  Less than twelve hours in the city, and he was already lost in the memories, blue eyes flickering to the looming buildings that lined the street, ghosts of previous haunts dancing before his mind's eye.  It probably wasn't the smartest thing for him to be wandering so on his first night in town---except it wasn't really wandering because he had a specific destination in mind---but the way Spike figured it, it would take a day or two for his presence to become known to those who might wish him ill-will, granting him a slight reprieve on his anonymity.  After that, it was anybody's money how long he lasted.  If he lived to finish the job, he would be one very surprised individual.

It had been four days since Spike had agreed to kill the Mayor, four days of planning, making phone calls, nightmares, and more planning.  They had learned little additional information on the target, in spite of Willow's persistent digging, and so it had been decided that a little extra undercover work would be necessary prior to making any move.  Apparently, the Mayor and his son spent a good number of their evenings at one of their clubs, a place called Heaven, and so Giles had used his connections to get Willow in as the new coat check girl.  As one of the employees, she would be privy to doors that neither of the Englishmen could access, hopefully gathering what more information they needed to make the hit as clean as possible.

Convincing Xander had been cake, not even needing Giles' intervention.  Before the words were even out of Spike's mouth, the young man was jumping at the opportunity to help, in spite of the very vocal protestations from his wife in the background.  "Just say the word," Xander had said over Anya's slight whine.  "I'm there."

And he was, or he would be, Spike thought.  At that moment, Giles and Willow were waiting at the airport for Xander's flight to arrive, ready to whisk him away to the fourth of the hotel rooms they'd booked for the duration of their stay.  That was a strategy the platinum blond had insisted upon.  Each member of the team was staying at a different hotel situated in far-reaching corners of the city; splitting them up, he felt, would not only give anyone who might be after them divided targets to conquer, it would also provide additional places to hide, should the heat get too high on any one person.

Frankly, Spike was convinced that person was going to be himself.  

Which was why he was looking to spend his last night of freedom before the job started getting as drunk as possible.

The bar appeared before him, its windowless front deceptively obscure, and Spike pushed open the door, listening to it creak as he stepped noiselessly across the threshold.  Willy's had been his secret hideaway when he'd lived in New York before, the one place he knew he could go without having to worry about running into someone he knew.  It wasn't like that just for him, though.  It was a Mecca for anyone wishing to disappear for a few hours, offering a no questions asked, no prejudices barred sort of atmosphere.  Willy only requested that everyone's personal baggage got checked at the door.  A disturbance within the walls of the bar was enough for permanent eviction, a sentence any of the regulars were ready to enforce, and so for the price of a few drinks, Spike knew that he could find a night of escape without fear of recourse.  He couldn't say that about much else these days.

Nothing had changed.  Still dimly lit, still with its tables tucked away as close to the walls as possible, as if its occupants feared the potential of mingling.  The strains of Frank Sinatra crooning "I'll Never Smile Again" emanated from the radio perched on a shelf behind the counter, while Willy's slight form was scarcely visible as he worked at drying some glasses.  The owner barely tossed Spike a second glance as the blond slid onto the stool farthest away from the door.

"What'll it be?" Willy asked, not even bothering to look up.

"Whiskey," Spike replied.  "Neat.  And bring me the bottle."

It was the accent that caught his attention, jerking the bartender's beady eyes up to squint at the most recent arrival.  A long moment of study, and then a grin split his narrow face, recognition opening the gateway of his welcome.

"You almost had me with the hair," he said, setting the tumbler down before shaking an admonishing finger at him.  "You lose a bet or something?"

With a wry smile, Spike ran his fingers through the bleached curls.  "Did it for a job a year or so back," he explained.  "Kinda liked the attention it got me from the dames."

"Well, I almost didn't recognize you.  You hadn't opened your mouth, I'm not sure I'd've piped on that William the Bloody was sitting in my bar again."  Willy grinned as he poured out the drink.  "Was that the plan?  You doin' some undercover work here in the city again?  'Cause I can keep my mouth shut about it, you know I can."

Spike sipped at the alcohol, suddenly weary of playing reminiscence with the bartender.  "I go by Spike now," he said.  "William the Bloody's dead and buried to this town."  Another sip and the tumbler was empty, the bottle automatically in his hand to refill it.  "You have another of these stashed away somewhere?  'Cause something tells me I'm goin' to be through this one right quick."

"Whatever you want, Spike."  Willy returned to cleaning the glasses.  He wasn't a stupid man.  This was the game; he could play it better than anyone.  "Whatever you want."

*************

As her heels clicked along the sidewalk, she pulled her wrap closer around her shoulders, speeding her step until Willy's loomed in front of her.  Should've picked a different dress, the blonde thought irritably.  Something with sleeves might've been nice.  But it was too late now to turn back.  She'd had this plan in motion for a week already, deliberately picking a neighborhood where no one knew her, scoping out the bar's clientele to assure that she would get what she wanted.  Willy's offered anonymity, with customers who seemed a cut above the norm that usually frequented that type of dive, and while they were hardly up to the standards to which she was accustomed, they would serve for her purpose for this single night.

Pausing just outside the door, she inhaled deeply, steadying her racing nerves.  She didn't know why she was nervous about this; it wasn't like anyone was ever going to find out about it.  And she needed this.  After tomorrow night, she thought, I'm officially hooked.  No way can I pull something like this after then.  It's all right.  Everything is in place.

As she entered, she caught the last few lines of the song playing on the radio---_I know I will never start to smile again, until I smile at you_---and had to refrain from turning and bolting as the emotion welled in her throat.  It's not the same thing, she had to remind herself.  Even if the words do hurt.  Instead, she stopped just inside the entrance, allowing the heavy door to creak to a close behind her, her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting.  Her ebony wrap had already slid halfway down her shoulders by the time she could see again, but it didn't make a difference.  She had already spotted him.

He was sitting as far from the door as possible, his back to the wall, a bottle of whiskey on the bar in front of him.  Though his form was mostly hidden by the counter, it was obvious he was leanly built, his whole body exuding a pent-up power begging to be unleashed.  Long fingers were wrapped around his glass, elegant and sleekly dangerous at the same time, and she suddenly flashed on those pale digits sliding along her flesh, the thoughts raising a flush to her chilled cheeks.  It was only when he lifted his gaze to meet hers, though, that the extent of the stranger's beauty truly hit her.

Sculpted cheekbones.  A shock of white-blond hair made unruly by nervous hands.  A nose that had been broken at least once.  Minute scars that testified to a life that had seen more violence than the norm.  And the eyes…_those eyes…stormy blue…penetrating…staring at her as if they could see down to the bottom of her soul._

Oh yeah, the blonde thought, all hints of melancholy from the song now banished.  He's the one.

*************

It was reflex that made him look up when the door opened, instinct honed by years of walking along the edge of danger, but it wasn't impulse that kept his eyes riveted on the new arrival.  Women at Willy's were a rare breed; the only females that tended to wander through the doors were pro skirts needing to get off their feet or older boozehounds looking for a new joint to get smoked in.  It also wasn't the type of place where one brought a date, so seeing this woman come strolling in all of her own accord was enough to spark even a little bit of interest.

That, however, was not why Spike stared.

He stared because, frankly, she was the most beautiful creature he'd seen in a _very_ long time.

Lady, he corrected himself.  This dame's most definitely a lady.

Perfectly coiffed, with golden hair that fell in carefully arranged waves past her shoulders, her golden skin seemed luminescent next to the midnight of the wrap around her small frame.  She was a tiny slip of a girl, with grey-green eyes that almost seemed too large for her face, shining with an intelligence no amounts of hair coloring was going to deny.  It was when she smiled, though, full lips spreading in a delicious curve that made Spike want to respond in kind, that her face lit up, some secret joy dancing across her features, bringing them to life.

He could've stared at her face all night, lost in her eyes, he realized, until the wrap fell from her body, exposing the creamy expanse of her bare shoulders.  She was overdressed for the place, her strapless black dress hugging small but very much there breasts, before flaring in gauzy layers at the waistline.  An ivory lace inset at the bust accentuated her cleavage, lending her curves an unnecessary boost to their appeal, and Spike watched as she draped her wrap over a toned arm before strolling deliberately to the bar.  The _end_ of the bar.  _His end of the bar._

He tore his eyes away as she slid onto a stool just three seats down, dropping his gaze to stare into the amber liquid in his glass.  Her delicate perfume cut through the scent of the whiskey---jasmine, he realized, with just a hint of clove---and the arousal that had been threatening him since she walked in followed through on its promise, forcing him to shift his weight imperceptibly in his stool to accommodate its hard length.  Though he hardly lived the life of a saint, it had been a long time since he'd had such a visceral reaction to a complete stranger; usually, he fell for the dames with a spot of the personality, the ones who sparked him to use his brain just a little in talking to them.  Dru had been like that.  Of course, Dru had been a complete nutcase, but that was an entirely different story.

"Martini, please," he heard her say.  

Inwardly, Spike chuckled.  Doubt Willy gets many calls for those these days, he thought, and wondered abstractly if the bartender even knew how to make one.  Through his lashes, he watched as she waited patiently for her drink, mildly surprised when Willy threw the thing together in record time, biting the inside of his cheek to restrain the quirk of his lips when she lifted the glass and drained it in one gulp.  He was about to reconsider his assessment of her---_maybe she is a boozehound_---when she swivelled in her seat to look directly at him.

"It's the only way I can drink them," she said jokingly, referring to her now empty glass.  "It's all or nothing for me."

"Why drink 'em at all then?" Spike asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.  Part of him felt like a teenage schoolboy, both thrilled and nervous at being spoken to by the prettiest girl in the room, and he chastised himself for the weakness.  She's just makin' conversation, he told himself.  And it's not like you don't know how to talk.  "Sounds a bit of a waste, if you ask me."

Her smile was apologetic.  "Liquid courage."

He couldn't stop gazing at her eyes.  "Somehow, I find that a little hard to believe," he replied, and wondered how much of his arousal was apparent in his voice.  "You don't seem the sort who's got problems bein' brave."

"I needed it to talk to you."  Her confession was soft, the tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips, sending his pulse to race with its promise, but the realization of what she was drove Spike's attention back to his drink.

"Sorry, doll," he said coolly, his illusions shattered in the cold, hard face of reality.  "Not lookin' for that kind of company tonight."

For a moment, the blonde's smile didn't waver as confusion flickered behind her eyes.  Then, her jaw dropped.  "Oh!" she said in a bluster.  "I'm not…"  She turned to the bartender.  "Tell him I'm not what he thinks I am, Willy."

"She's not what you think she is, Spike," Willy said dutifully.

"And what is it I think you are?" he asked, surprisingly amused by this turn of events.

She blushed, and the color that rose in her cheeks brought a shiny glitter to her eyes.  "You think I'm a…a…"  She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if she was about to say a naughty word.  "…pro skirt or something."

"And you're not?"  Not that he didn't believe Willy---he did---but this was obviously a possibility that hadn't occurred to the pretty blonde when she'd approached him, and frankly, Spike thought it was hysterically funny watching her discomfort.

"No," she protested.  "I just…you looked…I don't make it a habit to talk to strange men," she finished lamely.

"Well, this strange man seems to be gettin' his fair share of your tongue," Spike replied, unable to contain his smile any longer.  "Care to tell me why?"

She seemed to be gathering up all her strength, levelling her gaze at him as she took a deep breath.  "You looked kind of like how I'm feeling," she said, hazel eyes boring into him.

"Oh?  And how's that?"

"Like you just want to be lost."  The words were soft but clear, floating across the distance between them to reach into Spike's chest and suck out all the air in his lungs with their candor.  

His smile faded, blue darkening in contemplation as they searched hers, scanning for any sign of duplicity.  His guard was up.  Either she'd gotten lucky in her favorite pick-up line actually meaning something to him, or somehow, someone had figured out he was in town already and sent her after him.  There was no way they could've met before---Spike was certain hers was a face he would remember, no matter how drunk he got---which ruled out her using personal knowledge in tossing that line at him.  So, since he pretty much considered relying on luck a fool's paradise, he was settling on option number two.  Why do they always send the pretty ones? he thought as he shifted again his seat, imperceptibly moving his leg to give himself easier access to the knife strapped to his calf should the need arise.

There was a third possibility, but the far-reaching ludicrousness of it made Spike shove it to the back of his brain, even as it reared its head to make its presence known.  She could've been genuine.  She could've honestly looked at him, measured the depths of his soul with an acumen usually reserved for Red or Ripper, and said exactly what she was feeling, that she felt a connection, a familiarity borne of kindred spirits.

But that was even more ridiculous than thinking she was just lucky.

"What's your name?" Spike finally asked quietly.

She smiled, obviously relieved that he wasn't running away.  "You can call me Anne," she said.

He didn't miss the sharp glance from Willy, but he didn't need the notice of the bartender to know she was lying to him.  Yet another reason to consider her dangerous, he thought, and found himself oddly disappointed that it really looked like she was some dropper out to get him.  He'd actually believed her for a long moment there.

"I'm Spike," he said.

"I know."  At his suspicious frown, she gestured hurriedly toward the bartender.  "That's what Willy called you."

"Right," he drawled, and watched as she stood up and moved down to the seat right next to him.  Up close, he could see the imperfections to her beauty---the slight bump on her nose, the smattering of freckles marring the otherwise flawless complexion---but he could also see the small laugh lines at the corner of her mouth, and thought she looked even more stunning because of it.  Her scent was stronger as well, renewing his desire even in light of who he suspected she was.  For a brief moment, he saw her hand tremble, but as he looked again to confirm what he witnessed, she quickly tucked it into her lap, out of sight, turning her torso to focus on him.

She was nervous. 

Why, he had no idea.  Any pro would know better than to let their nerves show in front of the mark, so unless she'd been exposed to repeated horror stories about him---of which there were many, Spike knew---there was no reason for her to be anxious about doing her job.

Unless she wasn't actually on a job, and he was sitting there, chatting with a woman who just happened to be interested in him as a person, who seemed to see into him and recognize something of herself.  

Stranger things had been known to happen.

*************

An hour later, he felt like he was intoxicated, except neither of them had touched their drinks since she had moved seats.  He was alternating between being utterly convinced she was a hired gun, softening him up before taking him down, to being totally certain that she was the real deal, a lonely young woman just trying to lose herself for a single night.  It had been a long time since he'd been unable to put his finger on someone, and the more time he spent with her, the more intrigued Spike got.

Per some unspoken rule, they studiously avoided talking about anything too personal, no "where are you from," "what do you do," "what's your favorite color."  Though she'd been silent at first, when he'd casually made a reference to her resembling a young starlet he'd seen around LA---though much prettier, of course---Anne had launched into an animated discussion about the career of Sonja Henie, and over the course of the next fifteen minutes, Spike had learned more about the ice skater turned actress than he'd ever thought imaginable.  The details of what she was saying didn't particularly interest him; what captured his fancy was the passion with which she spoke, the fervor that lit the hazel depths of her eyes and made them dance even in the dim light of the bar.  When he dared to attempt to argue the validity of an athlete trying to have a go at it in the entertainment business, she had jumped on his words in a flash, delivering her case with an unfaultable logic he couldn't help but smile and shake his head at.

"I give, you win," he'd said.  "But I'd still take a Jimmy Cagney flick any day."

A veil seemed to drop over her face at the mention of the actor, and she ducked her gaze, slim fingers playing with the stem of her glass.  "Gangster movies don't really do anything for me," she'd commented.  "Too much violence."

"Don't like him for that."  At her raised eyebrows, he'd elaborated, "There's more to Cagney than meets the eye.  Good ol' Jimmy started out as a song-and-dance man.  Betcha didn't know that."  He'd grinned, delighted in being able to trump her argument.  "It's all about the layers, right?"

Their conversation had shifted after that, sparking debate after debate after debate.  Sometimes he won; sometimes she won.  The end result didn't really make a difference to Spike.  It was the dance that mattered, and for the first time in a very long time, he was enjoying the steps too much to care about the final destination.

When she casually asked him what time it was, Spike surprised himself by being disappointed when she immediately reached for her wrap on the stool next to her after hearing his reply.  Disappointment shifted to suspicion, however, when she laid a careful hand on his forearm.

"I don't suppose you'd do me a favor, would you?" Anne asked.

Even through the sleeve of his shirt, her touch scorched his skin, but Spike remained impassive as he looked up at her.  "And what's that?" he asked warily.

"I didn't mean to stay out so late," she said, and if she hadn't already been flushed from their conversation, she would have blushed even deeper.  "And…this neighborhood's not exactly the safest place for a lady to walk after dark."  Her eyes fell, almost as if she was terrified of making the request.  "I don't suppose I could ask you to walk me back to my hotel?"

He'd known it was coming.  No amount of pretty talk, or harmless flirting, or intoxicating perfume had distracted him from the question of why she'd approached him in the first place.  Still, he still hadn't made his mind up about her.  Until now.  Of course she wouldn't try anything in the bar.  She'd get him outside, probably pretend to stumble so that she could reach wherever it was she'd hidden her gun---and didn't picturing _that_ just send his body into overdrive---and then drill him on the street.   In this neighborhood, nobody would probably even hear the gunshot.

He just hoped he got a chance to ask her who hired her before having to take her out himself.

He rose without saying a word, pulling a crumpled bill from his pocket and tossing it onto the counter, ignoring Willy's curious glances between the pair of them.  "Where's your hotel?" Spike asked, stepping back to wait for Anne to lead the way.

"Just…around the corner," she replied, and the smile she gave him was laced in relief.

She's a smart one, she is, Spike thought as he followed her out onto the street.  Knows not to make it too far away.  

The distant hum of traffic undercoated the silence that hung between them as they strolled along the walk, side by side but hands very much to themselves.  Though he appeared nonchalant, he kept one eye on the small blonde, watching her as she played with the ends of her wrap, her eyes locked on the path before them.  She seemed to be lost in thought, and while he was grateful for his sobriety that would no doubt allow him to stop her, Spike was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to make a move at all, if maybe he'd made up his mind too quick.  It wasn't like he hadn't been doubting himself for the hour before they'd left Willy's.

When she stopped in front of the building, he frowned, eyes lifting to note the cheap neon sign announcing St. Christopher's Hotel for passers-by to see.  The front desk was in full view from their position before the door, and Spike could clearly see the dog-eared copy of "Pocket Detective" in the clerk's hands as the squirrely young man thumbed through its pages.  Well, this doesn't make any bloody sense, the blond thought, eyes narrowed.  If I can see him, he can sure as hell see me.  She can't mean to plug me with a witness, can she?

He almost didn't hear the soft question come from her lips.  "Would you…like to come up?" she asked.

When his eyes fell to her face, Spike could've sworn he could smell the nerves radiating from her skin.  Now that's called moxie, he thought with more than a hint of admiration.  She wants to do it where she can control the mess.  Won't be a heater then.  Too much noise.  Probably a shiv or something.  His lips curled into a smile, in spite of himself.  Too bad a dame like this is on the other side, he thought.  This is someone I want on _my team._

She was waiting for him to answer, to say something, even just acknowledge that she'd posed the invitation in the first place.  Instead, Spike took a step back, craning his neck to look up the front of the building.  "How up is up?" he asked casually.

"Huh?"  The reply took her by surprise, and she stared at him blankly.  

"How up is up?" he repeated.  "'Cause the way I figure it, you're on a lower floor.  Otherwise, you've got to worry about lugging my body past too many prying eyes.  Joint like this probably doesn't have a service elevator for you to use."  He lowered his head to look steadily at her.  "Maybe you should've thought of that before you picked it out."

"What are you talking about?"  Gone was the slight flirtatious manner that had characterized the latter part of their conversation at Willy's.  In its place lay a penetrating strength only some of her earlier words had hinted at, and her gaze, though questioning, met his with a directness Spike found himself thrilling with.

His smile faded, and Spike took a languorous step toward her.  He'd expected her to back away---it would've been the natural response of fear from any woman in her position---but instead, she held her ground, staring him down as he closed the distance between them.  Nostrils flared as he drowned in her perfume, and he reached down to take her wrist between his fingers.  "I know what you're about," he murmured, leaning in to breathe the words into her ear.

Her body was pressed against the glass next to the door, while the intimate angle of his against hers would've fooled both someone walking by and the clerk inside, should either take any notice of the couple.  She didn't have a response to his statement, but watched him, the only sign that he was hurting her wrist the tiny lines between her brows, the tightening of her lips.

"Gotta have 'em hidden somewhere," he whispered, and let his left hand slide down the side of her body, tugging at the fullness of her skirts to allow his touch to slip beneath the hem.

His grip was preventing her from moving, but that seemed to be the last thing she wanted to do at the moment anyway.  Her breath was coming in gasps, pupils dilated to swallow the green.  "What…what…what're you doing?" she finally managed, each stroke of his fingertips up the gossamer fabric of her stockings driving her lids down, then up, with excruciating slowness.

Though his search was merely a self-preservation tactic, Spike couldn't help his arousal as his hand skated over the firmly muscled thigh.  He pulled back, suddenly needing to see her face, and saw the corresponding desire darkening her own aspect.  "Can't kill me without a weapon," he said softly.  "And this…"  Strong fingers probed across the top of her stockings, seeking the sheath or holster he fully expected to find.  "…is the only place for you to have it."

She froze at his words, using what leverage she had to pull her upper body away from him.  "Why would I want to kill you?" she asked.  Her voice was slightly louder, bewildered shock driving up its volume.  "You don't even know who I am."

Not _I don't know who you are_, he realized.  The thought corresponded with the discovery of perfectly smooth skin, no awkward bulges from secret weapons, just silken sinew encased in lace-trimmed nylon.  His muscles stilled.  

He'd been wrong.  

She _hadn't_ approached him with deadly motives.  

And now here he was, and there she was…

Spike jerked back as if burned, releasing her wrist, allowing her dress to fall back down naturally into its folds.  Shame burned his cheeks.  He'd never been the type to force his attentions on a member of the opposite sex; even at his worst, it had never been necessary.  A cheeky smile, some well-placed compliments…the dames had always been more than willing, inviting him for more.  Never him having to push his way through.

Now, if he'd actually found a piece on her, that would've been different.  However, as far as she was concerned, she had merely been sincere in wanting some conversation, someone to walk her back in safety.  And he'd abused that trust by---.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and took another step back.  "I just…back in the bar…"  He frowned, shaking his head.  Time to go back to Willy's and get good and thoroughly drunk.  "I'm sorry," he repeated.

He'd only managed to turn himself around when her small hand appeared on his forearm, repeating her gesture from earlier, stopping him vanishing into the night.  "Don't you…_want_ to come up?" she asked.  When he glanced back at her, her smile was gone, but her eyes still burned into him.  "The offer still stands."

"Why?" Spike blurted.  "What're you playing at here?  Truth, this time.  No more lines."

"Truth…"  Her snort of laughter was derisive, quickly swallowed as her gaze fell to the ground.  Blond waves fell against her cheek, hiding her face from his view, but it took only a moment for her to regain her composure and look up at him.  "Truth's relative, Spike.  I would've thought you were the type to know that already."

She had changed right before him.  The last of the coyness had been stripped from the persona he now realized she'd been affecting, leaving only the resolute strength he'd seen from the start.  His eyes glittered.  If it was possible, this Anne---or whatever the hell her name was---was actually _more appealing to him, and his tongue ran quickly over the edge of his teeth as he edged his way closer to her.  "So…I'll ask again.  Why aren't you runnin' from the Big Bad Wolf here, pet?  I'm not a very nice man."_

"I've seen worse."

"Doubt it."

"You didn't do anything that I didn't want you to do the second I saw you at Willy's."

His nostrils flared.  "That's a helluva thing to tell a bloke," Spike growled, and took yet another step.  

"You asked for truth."

He wanted to ask why she wouldn't share her real name, but held his tongue, letting his eyes deliberately slide over her form.  "What's this all about?" he queried instead.  

"Does it have to be about something?" she shot back.  "Why can't it just be about one night?  I just…needed to…feel something tonight.  Something…good."  She swallowed before adding, "You looked like you needed that, too."

His lips crashed down on hers, one hand curling into her waist, its mate burying itself in her tresses as he pulled her against him.  Maybe not so ludicrous, a small voice said in the back of his head.  And there was nothing wrong in trying to forget everything for just one night, not when she was willing, and wanting, and needing it just as badly as he was.

And beautiful.  Don't forget beautiful.  Tasting like sunshine and syrup.  With eyes he could drown in.

They were both gasping when he pulled away, and Anne reached behind her to push the hotel door open, taking his hand in hers to lead him inside.  The clerk didn't even look up as they passed by the counter, and it wasn't until they were inside the narrow elevator that she spoke again.

"Spike---," she started, but was stopped from continuing when his lips came back to hers, strong arms yanking her against his wiry form.  Her wrap fluttered to the floor as her own arms came up around his neck, and she felt like she was floating as his tongue swept the corners of her mouth, tangling with hers, coaxing the moans from her throat.

She was stronger than she appeared, he decided, as she clung to him, her hands curled into the hair at his nape.  Her heart was pounding through her chest, almost setting her entire body to vibrating, and he slid his lips from hers to nibble along her jaw.  Each bite sent a shudder across her skin, and Anne swallowed compulsively as she fought to maintain control.

"My…floor…" she breathed as the elevator eased to a stop, the doors sliding open.  

Spike broke away, bending over to retrieve the ebony wrap that had fallen to the floor.  "Onward and upward," he said with a tilt of his head in the direction of the doors.

She smiled, and as he watched, scooped up the other end of the silky fabric, using it to guide him along the hallway.  He let the distance grow between them, the wrap stretching taut, as his gaze travelled over the slight form he'd been so wrong about.  Red would be scolding me about right now, he thought.  Too much of a risk, she'd say.  You don't even know who this person really is.

But he did, though he didn't know how.  OK, so he didn't know the particulars, or even her real name, for that matter.  And if somehow he ended up on the wrong end of a knife some time before the night was over, he'd be laughing at himself for being a stupid git all the way to hell.  But something about this one called to him.  From her first real words---_like you just want to be lost_---to her resolute pursuit for what she really wanted, each moment spent in the golden aspect of her audience did something to him that hadn't happened since long before he'd left Dru and the Conti family behind.

It reminded him what it felt like to feel alive.

He stood behind her as she fumbled with the key in the lock, fixated on the tremors that seemed to have taken over her hands.  Spike had no doubts that she was attracted to him---he'd been with enough women over the years to be able to tell when a kiss was put upon---yet she remained nervous about what was happening, and that knowledge drove him forward, the need to reassure her suddenly overwhelming.

"I won't hurt you," he murmured into her ear, hands skimming over her bare shoulders.

There was a moment of tension as her body stiffened, and he briefly wondered if she was going to turn around and tell him to forget the whole deal.  She didn't.  Instead, she silently pushed open the door and stepped inside, leading him by the midnight tether that bound them, not even looking behind her as he pushed the door closed with his heel.

It could've been any hotel room, in any city.  A double bed in the middle of the room, cheap carpeting underfoot that allowed anyone walking over it to feel the floorboards underneath, the narrow dresser pressed against the wall.  A row of her cosmetics lined the top of the bureau, and he inhaled sharply, the scent of her perfume from when she'd doused herself earlier still lingering like a pungent appetizer in the air.

Letting the wrap fall from her hands, Anne stood at the end of the bed, her back to him, her head down.  The butterfly bows of her shoulder blades were visible above the bodice of her dress, and Spike stepped forward, bending his neck to skim his mouth over their delicate lines.  

A small cry gurgled from her throat, and he felt the goosebumps speckle her skin beneath his tongue, his lips curling into an unbidden smile.  His fingers settled at her zipper, tugging gently downward, allowing it to fall and pool at her feet in a midnight cloud, and Spike curled his arm around her waist to pull her against him, her feet lifting from the ground as he buried his mouth in the curve of her neck, leaving the dress behind.

Her clothes had hid her too well.  Though he'd felt the promise of those legs when he'd searched her for weapons, seeing the tanned skin peeking out above the lace of her stockings only served to arouse him more, if that was possible.  "Spike…" he heard her murmur, and she twisted against him, deftly turning herself around in his embrace.

Face to face, their lips met again, this time more gently, taking the time to explore the other without fear of interruption, shuttling the world around them to a dim void where nothing else mattered but them, and their need, and the bed upon which they tumbled.

Seconds stretched into minutes as they just lay on their sides, feeding from their kisses as if they'd been starved.  Without the encumbrance of her clothes, Spike let his hands roam over the curves of her flesh, nimble fingers releasing the catches on her garters, the hooks on the strapless bra.  The tiny catches that came in her breathing when his palms skimmed the tips of her hardened nipples renewed his attention to them, and he finally tore himself from the luxury of her mouth to let his lips slide downward.  

Lazily, his tongue circled her nipple, causing Anne to gasp, her back arching as her hands clawed at his flesh through his shirt.

"Off, off," she panted, tugging at the stiff cotton.  "Take it off."

Her request was the only way he would've torn himself away from the glory of her skin.  Sitting up, Spike's fingers undid the buttons in record time, stripping the dark shirt from his pale skin.

Even before he was bare, Anne smiled, eyes glittering as her gaze swept over him.  "More," she demanded, and sat herself up to reach the waistband of his pants.

Bloody fuck, he mentally groaned, eyes fluttering shut as her tiny hand wrapped itself around his freed erection.  Guess I was right about the hidden strength and all.  

When his eyes opened, she had divested herself of the rest of her clothing, dropping her undergarments to the growing pile on the floor.  A wicked smile played on her lips, and he let himself be pulled forward as she fell back against the mattress.

"No more playing," she said softly.  

Even before he was completely inside, Spike's head ducked so that his lips grazed her cheek.  He didn't want her to see him.  One night, she'd said.  Doesn't have to be about anything.  And here he was, drowning in a stranger, forgetting all the haunting guilt, and nightmares that segued into daymares, and broken promises that had littered his past with more dead bodies than any single person should be privy to.  And all because this lady from nowhere had offered him a lifeline.

Even if it was for only one night.

Each languid thrust brought shivers to her skin, her nerves a racehorse desperate to reach the finish line.  When he felt her mouth move against his neck, Spike thought it was merely a caress, and was surprised when her words floated to his ear.

"Please…" she begged.  "Just…I just…just…"  The excruciating slides of his cock inside her broke her efforts in coherence, and she swallowed, holding him even tighter as her body raged out of her control.  "Just…want to feel…beautiful…"

It was the plaintive ache in her voice that froze his limbs, and he lifted himself up on his forearms, still buried deep inside her, to look down at the shine in her eyes.  "Oh, pet," he crooned, and brushed back the damp strand of hair that clung to her forehead before settling his own against it.  "You _are beautiful."_

Their mouths joined then, hungry and desperate, refusing to disengage as he resumed his pumping.  She came long before he did, and though her body writhed beneath him, the continuance of their kisses prevented her keening to be more than a muffled cry that filled the small room, fingers knotted in his hair to keep him with her as she forced him to quicken his pace.

His orgasm when it came was just as silent as hers, and when he finally lifted his head to look down at her, he was startled by the enigmatic smile that curved her lips, the softening of her gaze as it settled on his mouth.

"I like the way you kiss," she said softly.  A slim finger came up to trace the outline of his lip.  "The way you give it your all."

He smiled then, and rolled himself to the side, stretching like a slumbering cat as she rested her head on his chest.  He didn't want to speak, fearful of breaking the spell that surrounded them, and instead reconciled himself to running a lazy finger up and down her spine, her contented sighs cooling the sweat across his skin the only impetus he needed to let his lids flutter shut.  

The last thing that drifted through Spike's head before he fell asleep was the remembered notion of how stranger things were known to happen.

*************

It had been a long time since he'd been roused by the sounds of New York City waking itself up, and Spike groaned as he buried his head under the pillow.  Just want to sleep, he thought grumpily.  Why does everyone need to wake up so damn early?

As he shifted atop the sheets, the scent of her perfume tickled his nose, and memories of the previous night came flooding back.  Her laughter as they'd argued at Willy's.  Her body as it had pressed against him right before they'd both drifted off to sleep.  The bottomless pools of her eyes as she'd asked him to come upstairs.  He smiled, and reached, searching for her lithe form next to him.

When he was met with an empty space, Spike lifted his head and stared at the creased cotton, eyes settling on the folded note that was resting on the pillow.  He didn't need to read it to know what it said.  She'd said one night.

Obviously, she'd meant it.

To be continued in Chapter 3: Friends and Enemies…


	3. Friends and Enemies

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  Buffy's song, "The Very Thought of You," was written by Ray Noble.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike has arrived in NYC, but on his first night in town, he met a young blonde going by the name of Anne at one of his old haunts, and ended up spending the night with her.  In the morning, however, she was gone…

*************

The tiniest of lines was between her brows as she replaced the receiver in its cradle.  "He's not there," Willow said, eyes pensive as they fixated on the phone.  "The clerk said he doesn't remember seeing him come back last night."

"This is Spike we're jawing about here," Xander said from his lounging position in the room's lone chair.  With his legs kicked out in front of him, his spine a curve in the incline of the seat, he was fighting the urge to just lay his head back and close his eyes.  Flying had been a nightmare and with his body still on California time, the brunette wanted nothing more at that moment than to be back in his bed, asleep for another four, or five, or maybe ten hours.  He wasn't sure why Willow had called him for this.  Even in the past, his responsibility had always been in the execution of plans, not in the arrangement.  If Spike needed eyes, or an extra set of hands, Xander Harris was there, no questions asked.  Had been ever since the Brit had saved his life.

"He's a big boy and knows how to take care of himself," he went on to say.  "He probably just met up with some old friends."

"All of Spike's old friends want him pushing up daisies," Willow replied, her lips thin.  "Did you not read _any_ of the material I gave you about this assignment?"

"Yeah."  He ticked his instructions off on his fingers.  "Wing it to New York.  Find the Mayor.  Kill the Mayor.  Wing it back home."

She shook her head, sitting on the edge of the bed and rearranging the various file folders that were spread across the chintz bedspread.  "You're hopeless."

"I'm just saying, give the guy a little credit for being smart about what he's doing here.  You think he's going to tip his mitt on his being in town if he can help it?  This is _Spike_," he repeated.  "He may have the impulse control of a bunny in heat, but his self-preservation instincts are top notch.  No way is he going to do anything that'll put him or us in danger."  At her raised eyebrow, Xander shrugged.  "Well, not any more danger than we're already in from gunning for one of the city's biggest crimelords.  But we did that to ourselves by signing up with him.  Color _us the stupid ones here."_

"He'll show up," Giles said, his voice low but firm.  Standing by the room's only window, he had been concentrating on the file in his hands, studiously ignoring the bulk of the conversation going on behind him.  Sometimes, listening to the pair of them go back and forth reminded him all too clearly that he was old enough to be their father, and he wanted nothing more than to smack them and tell them to shut the hell up.  He remembered why he'd been mildly relieved when Anya had put her foot down on Xander's continued involvement with their operations.  There was only so much of this he could take.

There had been a time when he thought the pair of them might hook up.  That had been right after Spike had brought Xander into the office, announcing he was their newest wingman and to put him to work as soon as possible.  Willow had blushed in that self-effacing, endearing way of hers, and promptly gone overboard in making the new arrival at home, waiting on him hand and foot when he was around, laughing at all his jokes.  In spite of how obvious it had seemed to Giles, Xander remained oblivious to the attention and when he'd started dating Anya, the Englishman had breathed an unexpected sigh of relief.  Willow deserved better.  Someone more on her intellectual level.  Someone who would challenge her.  Though Harris was a good man, Giles wanted more for her.

And felt like an absolute prat for allowing himself to feel so territorial about the young redhead.

As if in response to Giles' declaration, there was a sharp knock at the door, yanking Willow to her feet and sending her scurrying to answer it.  "Spike!" she said with a broad smile when he sauntered past her.  "You're alive!"

He grinned, stopping at the edge of the bed to survey the hotel room Willow had settled in.  He didn't know how she did it, but she'd already managed to make it look like her own.  Fresh flowers that he just knew she had purchased that morning adorned the simple nightstand, while a row of books now lined the top of the bureau.  It was a small room, but that had been at Willow's insistence; just because they were getting paid a lot of money for this job didn't mean they had to go blowing it on silly things like a suite at the Plaza, she'd argued.

"Sounds like you expected me not to be," Spike commented.  He dropped the bag of fresh bagels he'd brought with them onto the bed, sending her files scattering to the floor.  His eyes settled on Xander, and his grin widened.  "You look like hell, Harris.  Don't tell me this is what happens when you get separated from the ball and chain for a few hours."

"No, this is what happens when a certain redhead decides body clocks are meant to not only be ignored, but smashed to smithereens."  He shambled to his feet and frowned quizzically.  "You're smiling," he observed with a note of curiosity.  "Who are you and what have you done with my pal Spike?"

He chuckled as he collapsed into the chair Xander had just vacated, a sound that drew inquisitive glances from each of the others in the room.  "Must be something in the air," he said.  "The smell of old hunting grounds has a way of bringin' out the beast in me."

It was then that Willow noticed, and she stopped from where she'd been retrieving the files.  "You're not hung over," she said in amazement.  Indeed, not only was he not hung over, she realized, Spike looked better than she'd seen him in months.  While it looked like he was still wearing his clothes from the previous day---though with _his wardrobe choices, that was sometimes kind of hard to tell---they weren't wrinkled like he'd slept or passed out in them.  His eyes glittered in a restrained amusement as he looked steadily back at her, and she would've sworn there was a relaxed ease about his lean frame that belied the anxiety that had wracked it only twenty-four hours earlier._

"Not for lack of tryin'," Spike said.  "Just didn't…turn out that way in the long run.  Had myself a night in for a change."  For some reason, that seemed to amuse him even more, and Willow frowned as she watched him chuckle silently.

"But you never went back to your hotel last night," she pressed.  "The clerk said---."

"You're checkin' up on me?"  All humor had dropped from his countenance, his eyes steel as Spike sat up in the seat.  The bagel to which Xander had helped himself stopped midway to his mouth as his eyes darted between his two friends, watching Willow quail slightly beneath the blond's stare.

"You were late," she said tremulously.  "I was worried.  And we _are_ in the Big Apple here.  You know, the big I-have-enemies-around-every-corner city you've been complaining about since we took this job?  For all I knew, you were lying in the middle of some street with a stomach full of lead because Dru found out you were back in town and decided her boys needed some target practice."

The genuineness of her tone marginally eased the tension in Spike's shoulders, and he ducked his head.  "Right, Red.  Consider me suitably chastised.  Now, can we get this shindig rollin' here?  I've got places to see, people to do."

She realized he'd effectively avoiding her question about his whereabouts the previous evening, but decided that maybe she'd pressed hard enough for one day.  Spike was a grown man, and Xander was right.  He could take care of himself.  It didn't mean, though, that she wouldn't sit silently by and worry about him anyway.

"Nothing new on the Mayor himself," Willow said, picking up one of the files.  "But Giles found out something interesting last night when we got back from picking up Xander."

"Oh?  What's that?"

Giles cleared his throat.  "It seems our unknown employer is not the only party interested in removing the Mayor from his current position within the crime families of New York," he said.  "I received a call from an old friend, following up on some of the background work I was doing on the legitimate businesses the Mayor runs.  It turns out that the government sent in their own man some time ago in an attempt to infiltrate his organization."

Spike frowned.  "If there's a g-man in on this---," he started, but was cut off by Giles' outstretched palm.

"There's not…we don't think.  According to my friend, the government lost contact with their insider some time ago.  As far as they're concerned, he's dead.  They assume the Mayor fingered him and took him out of the picture." 

"I'm not tanglin' with the feds," Spike reiterated.  "We've got enough problems with those bloody lawyers.  I see one sign that this pigeon is alive and flappin', I'm bailing on this job, I don't care what those mouthpieces threaten us with."

"Whoa, there, Nellie," Xander said through a mouthful of bagel.  "Who's threatening who?"

Willow sighed.  "If you'd read the files I gave you, you'd know this."

"Well, I didn't, so fill me in."

With an exasperated sigh, Spike propelled himself upwards.  "I am _not sittin' in on another of Red's lectures," he announced and began striding toward the door.  His hands thrust deep into his pockets, extracting his cigarettes and lighter.  A folded piece of paper fluttered unnoticed to the floor.  "I'll be out havin' a smoke and a spot of fresh air.  Lemme know when the floor show's over."  And with that, he was gone._

The trio sat in silence for a long moment after he left, each one of them gazing at the door.  "That was…odd," Giles finally remarked.  "Spike seemed…"

"…distracted," Willow finished for him.  "And almost…happy."  She turned to look at the Englishman.  "When was the last time we saw him happy?"

"He smiled at my wedding," Xander offered.

"He was drunk at your wedding," Giles countered.

"What do you think happened?" the redhead asked.  "Do you think he might have killed someone?  You know how he gets after he's been shooting things."

"What's that?" Xander queried, noticing the paper littering the entryway of the room.  Rising to his feet, he had crossed the floor and picked it up before either of them could comment, opening it up to scan its contents.  His mouth curled into a grin, and he looked up at the waiting pair.  "I think we can stop wondering about Spike, and just start trusting that he's a big boy and can take care of himself."

"Why? What is it?"

He handed her the slip, and watched as she read it through once, then again, and then a third time, her eyes widening with each pass.  "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle," she murmured.  Her surprised gaze lifted to meet Giles' quizzical one.  "Spike met a girl last night."

"A girl?  Are you certain?"

She smiled.  "Well, I'm hoping it was a girl."  She read from the note.  "'Something tells me we both got found tonight.  Thanks for making me feel beautiful.'"

Xander's grin was wide.  "At least we know why he was smiling now," he said.  "The amount of tension he had built up, I'm surprised the dame had enough strength left over to write him the note."

"What are we going to do?" Willow asked Giles.

"I don't know," he admitted.  "I mean, it's not like Spike hasn't been with other women before.  He's just never been so…_pleased about it."_

With a sure step forward, Xander marched to the bed and snatched the note from Willow's unsuspecting hands.  "You two and your thinking too much," he said.  "This is eggs in the coffee here, probably one of the easier problems we've had to deal with.  Because it's _not a problem.  It's not even any of our business.  So what if Spike found himself a girl who makes him happy?  You think he's going to pull a Jekyll and Hyde or something?  He's not dumb, and I say if he found a piece of skirt who doesn't look at him cross-eyed for doing what he does, then all the power to him."_

"The last time Spike was happy about a girl was with Dru," Willow said.  "And she cut his heart out and tried selling it to the highest bidder.  Spike's our friend.  I don't want him going through that again."

Xander tucked the paper into his pants pocket, shaking his head.  "He's my friend, too.  I don't plan on letting anyone hurt him.  I promise you, if I see any funny business, you two will be the first ones I tell.  But please, I'm asking you, just back off and give the man some breathing room.  This job's going to be tough enough as it is.  He doesn't need us distracted because we're too busy thinking about him maybe getting a little lucky on the side."

"What about the note?"

"Forget you ever saw it.  I'll give it back to him when we go to Heaven tonight.  Tell him I saw him drop it or something.  If he asks, I won't lie about reading it, but that shouldn't be a problem anyway."  His amiable face split into a huge smile.  "How's he going to resist this mug?"

*************

Every step along the concrete had fouled his mood until by the time he reached Heaven that night, Spike looked very much like he was ready to pull the wings off a swarm of butterflies.  

It had seemed so simple.  He'd had a bloody amazing night, and he wasn't ready to just walk away from it.  So…find Anne.  Convince her that it didn't have to be just one night.  Maybe under other circumstances, Spike could've just left it as the interlude she fully expected it to be.  Hell, under other circumstances, with other dames, he _had_ left it exactly like that.  But not now.  Not when there'd obviously been a connection between them.  Not when she'd obviously enjoyed herself just as much as he had.  And not when, for the first time in ages, he found himself looking forward to the next moment because maybe, _just maybe, she might be in it.  So, find her.  That was the plan._

She'd left a trail a mile wide, it had looked like.  It should've been a piece of cake.

It wasn't.

After the meeting with Red and Ripper, he'd gone back to St. Christopher's and tried to get information about the blonde from the squirrelly desk clerk, even going so far as pulling out his gun to threaten him with a spot of violence.  It had been funny at first; reading about the underbelly of New York in one of the multitudinous detective rags on the market was a little different from seeing it from the barrel end of a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum.  The little guy had scrambled to pull out all the records, desperate to show Spike just what he wanted and to get the reality of a bullet in his forehead as far away as possible.

She'd paid in cash when she'd checked in under the name "Frankie Ballou."  Spike had almost laughed out loud when he'd seen that.  Didn't like gangster movies, huh? he'd thought.  Bet she didn't think I'd've seen "I Am the Law" as well.  Like I'd miss ol' Eddie G in any of his flicks.  Still, she couldn't have known that she was going to be running into him, either, Spike had reasoned.  At least, that's the way he was choosing to look at it.

With the hotel a wash-out, next stop had been Willy's.  The bartender had known she was lying when she'd given her name as Anne; Spike had every intention of finding out what the little guy believed her name to actually be, even if it meant wringing his neck.  Only problem was, Willy was nowhere to be found.  According to the bloke on duty, he would be back in the bar in a day or two, so in the meantime, Spike had to cool his heels and wait.

He was bad at waiting.

The rest of his afternoon had been spent trawling the other businesses in the neighborhood, asking questions of shopkeepers, stopping people on the street, quizzing all of them on the identity of the unknown blonde.  No one knew anything.  It was as if she had appeared out of nowhere, left no impression on the world around her except for him, and then vanished into the crowd, becoming another faceless body seething through the masses, enjoying an anonymity he had been reveling in only twelve hours earlier.

He could find her quicker, he knew, if he just went to Red and Ripper.  This was exactly the sort of thing they were good at.  Going to them, though, meant speaking up about what had happened, and for some reason, Spike just wasn't ready to do that yet.  Not even with his friends.  For now, he wanted to keep the secret of that night tucked safely away inside his chest, guarding it against taint from a sullied world.  It was all he had right now, especially since he'd lost the damn note.  He was still kicking himself about that one.

So, here he stood, on the walk outside Heaven, mood black at his impotence from the day, tugging at what felt like a noose around his neck.  It was a black-tie kind of joint, Willow had said.  Even as the coat check girl, she was required to be in full evening wear in order to present the proper image to the clientele, so he and Xander would have to be suited up if they wanted to blend with the rest of the customers.  She had suggested that perhaps he should go back to his natural hair color for the job as the white-blond made him stand out in a crowd, but Spike had put his foot down on that.  Nobody in this town knew him with the bleach job; going back to the honey-brown would make him even more recognizable to anyone meaning him harm.

The soft caress of a trumpet solo filtered to his ear as he pushed open the door, and Spike paused, eyes sweeping across the entrance with a practiced eye.  Money---lots of it---had been poured into the joint.  Plush scarlet carpeting adorned the entryway, with gilt-edged furniture that spoke of a more delicate era offering comfort to those who might have to wait to enter the main area.  Impressionist paintings were also scattered about to give them something to look at.  To his right was the coat check area, and behind the wide counter, he saw Willow standing, a smile spreading across her face when she noticed him come in.

"You scrub up pretty good," she commented as he sauntered up to her.

His eyes flickered over the emerald gown she wore, cap sleeves revealing the porcelain of her skin, gold sequined trim bringing out the flecks in her eyes.  "You don't look half bad yourself, Red," he replied, peeling off his overcoat.

"Xander's already inside," she said.  She turned to hang his coat up, taking the ticket to hand it back to him.  "He's got a table in front.  Stage left.  You can see the whole place from there."

"What about the Mayor?  He poked his puss in yet?"

She shook her head.  "I haven't really gotten an opportunity to meet any of the other staff yet, either.  Giles was late in dropping me off.  Oh!  He said to let you know he picked up the car you wanted.  He wasn't able to get a thirty-seven, but he did manage to find a thirty-eight in black.  Plus, it's got the leather interiors like you asked for."  Her nose wrinkled.  "You really think a Desoto's appropriate for this kind of work?" she asked.  "Nobody's going to take you seriously if they see you driving it.  It doesn't exactly say, I'm a player, now does it?"

"Exactly," Spike said.  "Blending in's the key to not gettin' killed here, remember?"

"Oh.  Right."

"And you'll be grateful for those leather interiors when it comes clean-up time," he went on to say.  "Remember tryin' to get the blood stains out when I had to smoke that Adam guy in his car?  Leather's a spot easier to wipe clean than upholstery."  Reaching across the counter, Spike grabbed the hem of his jacket and pulled it to him, tucking his hands inside the pockets to extract his cigarettes and lighter.  "We meeting back at your hotel when the night's done?"

She nodded.  "No later than three.  We need time to organize our notes and I've got to be back here tomorrow at noon for paperwork.  I didn't get around to doing it tonight."

Three.  That would give him plenty of time to go back to Willy's for a while then.  The barkeep might not be around to ask about the mysterious Anne, but that didn't mean she might now show her face all on her own accord.  She'd done it once.  She just might do it again.

*************

Xander saw him long before he slid into the other chair at his table, and pushed over the glass of whiskey that he'd had waiting.  "You're late," the brunette remarked, no recriminations in his voice, just a casual observance.

"Doesn't look like I missed much, though," Spike replied, and let his gaze flicker over the crowd.

The club was only half-full, elegant tables surrounding the black and white dance floor that encompassed the center of the room.  Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, catching the brilliant colors of the gowns and making them shimmer in the ambient light.  Just before their table was the stage, with a small bandstand on its opposite side.

Xander noted his friend's inspection and nodded.  "Joint's high-class, I'll give the Mayor that much," he said.  "The man likes his nice things."

"And clean," Spike said, looking down at the floor shining back at him.  "I think I could eat off that."

"Don't have to.  That's what they have these things called tables for."

Spike picked up his glass, shaking it just enough to watch the amber fluid swirl inside, catching the light from the chandeliers and tossing it in yellowish glints onto his friend's face.  "Red says the Mayor's a no-show.  Hope you haven't been too bored just sittin' here."

Xander immediately lit up.  "Are you kidding?  I think I'm in love."

"In love?"  That brought his attention up, and his lips quirked at the excitement on the brunette's face.  "I'd hope so.  You married the silly chit."

"What?  Oh, no, not Anya.  Well, yeah, Anya.  I love Anya.  But no, I'm not talking about her."  He gestured toward the stage.  "The torcher they got here will turn your hair white, she's that good, although with you, that might be redundant.  And did I mention gorgeous?  Beautiful.  Like Carole Lombard, only prettier.  And probably smarter.  And---."

"---and I get the picture," Spike laughed.  "An angel walking in the clouds, singing for us mere mortals."  He shook his head.  "Maybe Anya was right not to let you out of her sight.  One little flash of a pretty leg and you're this dame's lapdog."

"I'm not a lapdog, and Anya's got nothing to worry about."

"Oh?  Then where's your wedding ring?"

Embarrassed, Xander tucked his bare hand in his lap out of view, using his right to pick up his drink.  "I don't wear it when I'm working," he said.  "You know that.  Just in case."

"Well, just in case does not mean sniffing around shiny little singers who probably turn a trick or two on the side," Spike said, all serious again.  "I didn't bring you into this to ruin what you got with Anya, and if you're not goin' to behave yourself, I'll send you packing back to California and do this myself."

"No, I'm good.  Don't worry about me.  Just…wait until you see her.  I promise.  You'll see exactly what I'm talking about here."  His head jerked in the direction of the door, and his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the new arrival.  

Slowly, Spike turned in his chair, letting his gaze follow Xander's, stopping at the bulky black form that hovered just at the edge of the dance floor.  He knew right away it was Angel Wilkins.  There was no mistaking the heavy brow, the meticulously groomed dark hair, the salacious curve of his mouth as his brown eyes tripped over the various women in the club.  There was also no mistaking the power housed within his meaty hands, and Spike felt himself unconsciously straighten in his seat.

"And I thought the no neck thing was just because of Willow's lousy picture," Xander commented.  "Remind me to apologize for giving her a hard time."

Spike didn't reply, just watched the other man weave his way through the tables to sit himself at a vacant one in the opposite corner.  A waiter appeared from nowhere with a drink already prepared for the club owner, and the blond snorted when he saw the wine glass.  "Poofter's drinkin' white wine.  Can't even handle a real drink."

The lights were dimming then, and Spike watched as the emcee came from behind the velvet curtains to stand at the microphone centerstage.  "Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced.  "Back again, for your entertainment, Heaven's own little angel from above…the one…the only…Buffy Summers!"

Applause burst from the audience, and Spike noted that the only one who could compete with Xander for enthusiasm was Angel.  Interesting, he mused as the stage went black.  Looks like someone else has got a bit of a thing for the little songbird.

The music began first, a slow brass swell that rippled through the air in a sonorous caress.  And then…the voice.  Not powerful, but clear like a mountain spring.  On the thin side, but aching with emotion as every syllable slipped from her unseen lips.

"The very thought of you…and I forget to do…"

The lights came up on her then, and for a moment, Spike forgot to breathe, blue eyes widening in shock as there, on the small dais that elevated her enough to reach the tall microphone, stood Anne.

Or rather, Buffy Summers.

If it was possible, she was actually more beautiful than she'd been the previous evening.  The yellow bias gown she wore hugged her curves, silver bugle beads adorning the sleeveless v-neck bodice, the dress shimmering like spun gold as Buffy's hips slowly undulated in time to the music.  She wasn't even aware that she was doing it, he could tell.  Her eyes were closed, hands wrapped around the microphone in such a way that Spike was immediately thrust back into the hotel room at St. Christopher's, and she was lost in the lyrics of the song.  With her upswept hair, she looked very much like some mystical siren, standing lost in the waves.

"…the little ordinary things that everyone ought to do…"

Her eyes opened then, staring out into the darkness, oblivious to her audience as she sang to some unseen suitor.  Just as before, Spike found himself rooted to those gray-green pools, his black mood lifting as he realized that it no longer mattered that he'd spent the whole day looking for her.  Meant to be.  _Had to be.  Why else would she be here, in Heaven, tonight of all nights?_

"…I see your face in every flower…your eyes in stars above…"

Her head turned then, more as part of the performance than anything else, he knew, but his gaze bored into her, willing her to notice him, an odd need of desperation oozing inside of him that she would at least acknowledge his presence.

He knew the second she saw him.

The tiniest widening of her eyes, the faintest of hesitations as she sang, and then she looked away, deliberately choosing to focus elsewhere as the last lines of the song came tumbling from her luscious mouth.

"…it's just the thought of you…the very thought of you…my love…"

There was more applause, and this time Spike joined in, half-smiling as she stepped graciously back from the microphone to bow her head in acknowledgement to the audience.  In the opposite corner, he caught the sight of Angel rising to his feet and walking to the stage, and immediately his smile dissolved into a frown, his body tensing as he straightened in his chair.

The wanker was headed straight for Buffy, and though Spike knew he had no right to feel so, every nerve within his body was screaming at him to get up and stop the lummox from getting anywhere near her.  His fingers curled around the edge of his chair as he watched Angel slide a proprietorial arm around her waist, dwarfing her as he reached for the microphone.

"Aren't I the luckiest guy in New York?" Angel said to the crowd, and was rewarded with a smattering of applause.  He grabbed Buffy's right hand and thrust it forward.  "Show them the rock, dollface."

She hadn't been wearing it the previous night, of that Spike was certain.  No way could he have missed something the size of that.  But as the ready smile brightened Buffy's face, he discovered he couldn't stop staring at the diamond that glittered on her third finger, twinkling and mocking him with its cold beauty as Angel made sure it was flashed to the entire club.

She was engaged.  To Angel Wilkins.

Fuck.

To be continued in Chapter 4: Married to the Mob…


	4. Married to the Mob

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike and Xander have arrived at Heaven, the club most often frequented by the Mayor and his son, where Spike has learned that the mysterious Anne he met is really Buffy Summers, Angel's fiancée…

*************

He watched the rest of her set in a daze that shifted from scarlet to gold to black, and back to scarlet again, in an eddy that left his flesh running hot and cold, tiny fingers of disquiet licking their way up and down his spine.  More than once, Spike swiveled his head to stare at the table to which Angel had returned, scrutinizing the son of his intended victim with a mixture of malice and distrust as the other man beamed with exaggerated pride at his fiancée on the stage, but his gaze would inexorably slide back to _her, watching Buffy glow beneath the soft lights, momentarily making him forget what Spike considered to be a very cruel twist of fate.  _

So much for meant to be, he thought wryly.  Not when she's scheduled to get hitched to the poofter.  No room for an ex-trouble boy on the bill when she's already got one as a starring act.

It was the niggle that chewed at him, though, starting midway through her show, and turned Spike's thoughts away from the job at hand to the events of the previous night.  If she's so devoted to the Great Forehead, the niggle asked, why was she at Willy's, looking for what she freely admitted to needing while she lay in _your arms?  One night.  Just one night.  Wanting to feel beautiful.  Wouldn't a woman in love __already feel beautiful?  What had driven her to seek it out in the embrace of a stranger?_

His mind was made up before she reached the final song.  Casually, he leaned forward in his chair, catching Xander's attention.  "Change of plans," he murmured so as not to disturb the other audience members.

"What's that?" Xander asked, his voice low but his gaze continually darting back to the stage.

"Since it looks like we're only to be graced with Junior's presence tonight, I want you to go make nice-nice with him as soon as Bu---the _torcher_ finishes her act.  Keep him occupied.  I don't want him wandering away until I get back."

"Back?"  The single word captured the brunette's full concentration.  "Where're you going?"

Spike nodded toward the door almost hidden away at the side of the stage.  "I'm plannin' on gettin' the dope on little miss nightingale there."  He grinned, hoping for rakishness, though the truth was much more ambiguous.  "My charms usually work better one-on-one, so I'm hoping you can keep our guy talkin' while I try to get through to her."

Xander leaned in even further, confusion darkening his eyes.  "I thought that's why we had Willow on the payroll here," he said.  "Wouldn't she be better off being the one to talk to her?  You know, especially since they're both girls, they both work here.  It would probably seem more natural coming from her."

"Oh, I plan on Red giving Miss Summers the third, but she can't rightly do that while she's out front checkin' coats, now can she?"  Spike shook his head.  "This dame's a factor we didn't know about.  Not that I think it'll affect the job much, but I'm not takin' the chance."  His eyes were serious.  "You onboard or not?"

"Oh, yeah, of course I'm onboard," Xander assured, and then smiled.  "I knew you'd like her.  Can I pick 'em or what?"

Spike's eyes trailed back to the stage, fixing on Buffy's slim hands where they curled around the microphone.  As memories of her touch flamed his skin, he reached for his drink, forcibly controlling the nerves that threatened to rage out of control.  "Yeah, mate," he murmured, sipping at the amber liquid, feeling its languorous beckoning soothe away the unrest of his thoughts.  "We can both pick 'em."

*************

Note to self, Willow thought with a grimace.  Tomorrow night, wear flat shoes.

As assignments went, it wasn't the worst she'd ever had.  That honor was held by the time Spike and Giles made her go out on a date with the creepy frog collector so that they could break into his house for a necklace his ex-wife wanted back.  Her frog fear jumped into overdrive after dinner when he insisted on showing her his greenhouse, and it had taken all her resolve not to run screaming from the place.

Nope.  This one wasn't nearly as bad.  No frogs already made it a hundred times better.

As long as she remembered to wear lower heels tomorrow night.

Very few patrons had arrived after Spike, with the notable exception of Angel Wilkins, half the reason they were there in the first place.  Willow had been disappointed when he'd walked right past her, not even acknowledging her presence with as much as a nod, and frowned as she leaned against the counter.  Not that she was begrudging her friends, but sometimes she wished she could get as much in the action as Spike and Xander.  Even Giles got to have more fun with the jobs than she did.  Of course, she did get a kick out of doing the research, and being the one to spring the surprises on the group when an answer suddenly came to light was certainly a boost to her ego.  It just didn't seem like the same kind of rush, though, that she witnessed every time Spike was forced to put his life on the line.  She didn't want to die; that would be silly.  She just wanted to…live a little.

The soft whisper of the club's front door bolted her straight, and she affected her welcoming smile for whoever the new arrival was.  Almost right away, her eyes went wide.

He was tall, long limbs accentuated by the tailored cut of his suit and coat.  Spectacles did nothing to discourage the vivid blue of his eyes, and the long lines of his face bore the history of a man comfortable with himself.  Hubba hubba, Willow thought, and felt her smile warm as he caught her eye.

"Good evening," she said brightly.  "Can I take your coat?"

"Well, I say," he said, his own smile creasing his face as he stepped over to her.  "You're just a tad more chipper than the last girl I saw behind that counter."

Ooo, English, she thought.  What is it with me finding all the English guys?  Out loud, she said, "Um, thank you?"

He chuckled.  "No, thank _you_.  It's certainly better for me if I come in and find a smiling face.  The last coat check girl…left a little to be desired, I'm afraid.  As if being pleasant would somehow…hurt her face."

Charming, too, Willow decided as she laughed along with him.  He didn't seem to be in any hurry to remove his coat; he just stood on the other side of her counter, hands thrust into his pockets, watching her with those brilliant blue eyes.  All of a sudden, the urge to flirt with him swelled inside her, and she held his gaze while she leaned forward conspiratorially, coaxing him to follow her lead.

"I've got a theory," she said in a slightly lower voice.

"Oh?  And what's that?"

"More smiles means more tips.  And in this job, I need all the tips I can get."  She was teasing, but felt her good mood wilt slightly as he pulled away, his smile fading.

"Is there…a problem with your wages?" he asked.  "Are they not satisfactory?"

"Oh, they're just jake," she was quick to defend.  "Just not what I'm used to."  She grinned widely, trying to ease some of the discomfort that seemed to have settled in his demeanor with a small joke.  "Although I wouldn't be surprised if it's why the last girl took a powder."

His gaze went thoughtful.  "Perhaps it's an issue you need to discuss with the management," he said, his tone a trifle more crisp.  He stuck out his hand in greeting.  "I'm Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, the _manager here at Heaven.  And you must be Willow Rosenberg."_

She felt her stomach plummet, all the air sucking from her lungs as she gaped at him in horror.  One night on the job and she'd already managed to step in it with her boss.  Spike was _so_ going to kill her if she got fired, not to mention all the "I'm so disappointed" looks she'd get from Giles when he found out.  They'd be making her feel so guilty, she'd be dreaming of those Sunday dinners at Nanny Rosenberg's as a summer vacation.  Need to fix this, she thought hurriedly.  

"I'm so sorry," she rushed, eyes wide in apology.  "I'm really not like this.  I'm really _very responsible, and not of the Moaning Minnie variety, either---."_

"Moaning…Minnie?"  He seemed slightly taken aback by her choice of words, and some of the tension eased from his body as he lowered his hand and looked at her in curiosity.  "That's an English term.  Angel scolds me unmercifully when I use it.  But you're not English."

"No."  Ooo, common ground, she thought.  I can use this.  Her smile was nervous at best.  "But my two best friends are.  I guess I've picked up some phrases from them.  I really am sorry, Mr. Wyndam…Mr. Pryce…Mr…"  Willow stopped, fluster uncharacteristically depriving her of words.

"Wesley.  Everyone calls me Wesley."

"Wesley.  I really _am sorry."  The strain between them seemed to have scattered, and she allowed herself a more genuine response to his proximity, letting her relief shine in her eyes.  "I'm not normally so flirty with the customers.  It's just that you were so cute, and funny, and…"  Her voice faded, dismay that she'd said too much again driving the smile from her lips, her head falling forward to shake back and forth at her own stupidity.  "Hello, foot," she murmured.  "This is my mouth.  Nice to meet you."_

His chuckle surprised her, and Willow's gaze jerked up to see him looking at her, a bemused twinkle in his eyes.  "I suppose I'm partially to blame," he said.  "If I'd been here when you arrived this evening, we wouldn't have had this little misunderstanding.  Let's try this again, shall we?"  He threw his shoulders back, straightening his glasses before offering her his hand again.  "I'm Wesley.  I keep things running around here."

"I'm Willow," she replied, and felt her hand get swallowed up by his.  "I keep coats organized around here."

Their mutual laughter eased the feelings of dread that had settled in her skin, and inwardly Willow sighed.  Apocalypse averted, she thought.  Not losing my job, and I've met someone who has regular contact with the Mayor's son.  Not too shabby for the first's night work.

*************

On the off-chance Angel would attempt to follow Buffy after her set, Xander had left their table before the end of the last song, approaching the club owner with an aplomb that Spike had always admired and easing himself into the seat opposite as if the pair had been friends for ages.  Whatever he'd found to talk about seemed to be working because, as the blonde onstage stepped behind the velvet curtains, Angel barely even noticed, his clapping perfunctory as he listened to whatever it was Harris was saying.

Too bad the son's not the mark, Spike thought grimly as he slipped through the backstage door.  That would make this job _much_ more pleasant.

Musicians were milling about, and Spike stopped to look around the cluttered space, eyes trailing over the metal stairs that led to the lighting grid above, various backdrops leaning like velvet shadows against the walls.  There was no sign of the chanteuse---he was sure she would have been a beacon amidst the gloom and dim lighting---but he could smell the lingering traces of her perfume in the air, and wondered distractedly when he'd gotten so attuned to her scent.

He grabbed the arm of the first guy who passed him, a small brunette with his eyes glued to a stack of papers on the clipboard in his hand.  "Buffy Summers' dressing room," he asked, keeping both his face and voice as devoid of emotion as possible.

The little guy jumped at the physical contact, blue eyes widening into saucers as he pointed at the stairs.  "Up there," he squeaked.  "Second door on your left."

"Thanks."  Letting the man go, Spike strode toward the stairs, noticing the short row of doors that lined the landing midway up.  He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say to her; his first instinct had been merely to find her.  Now that she was close, though, his thoughts darted in every which direction, scrambling for something coherent to start a conversation with.  "Nice rock" reeked of the slimy fiancé, even if it did directly address her engagement.  On the other hand, "Nice rack," while undoubtedly true, would certainly reward him with a slap in the face.  He'd just have to play it by ear when he saw her, see how she reacted to his presence.  Maybe she would make it easy for him.

He didn't even bother knocking; no reason to give her an excuse to give him the gate before he even got in, he reasoned.  Instead, he turned the knob as silently as possible, grateful the door didn't creak.  A quick peek told him she was on the far side of the room, her back to the entrance, and carefully, Spike wedged himself inside, closing the door shut behind him.

She was pulling the pins out of her hair, bare arms raised so that the bows of her shoulder blades were accentuated as she set about her task.  With a sudden rush, the taste of her skin under his tongue as he'd nipped at that flesh made Spike's mouth water, and he felt himself harden within his trousers, his desire for her circumventing any rational thought, driving his feet forward so that he stood directly behind her.

She heard him approach, and her exasperated sigh was loud in the small room.  "Angel, how many times have I told you not to come up here after the show?" she said in annoyance, not even bothering to turn her head.  "Why don't you ever respect what I want?"

The hollow of her spine called out for his touch, and Spike reached out to her bare back, tracing the line with a single finger.  "I'm not Angel," he said in a low voice.

She whirled as soon as he spoke, cheeks flushing when she realized how close he was standing to her.  "How'd you…" Buffy started, and then swallowed, struggling to regain control of her voice.  "Who let you up here?"

His head tilted in the direction of the door.  "Little guy with a clipboard," Spike replied with a smirk.  "My new best friend, I think."

"I'm going to kill Jonathan," she murmured.  

Her eyes were locked to his, her body rigid, but she had yet to move away from him, their bodies only inches apart.  He was mesmerized by the pounding of her pulse, visible through the delicate skin of her neck, and wondered if she could see the corresponding throbbing in his own skin.  She's nervous but not scared, Spike thought.  Nice to know some parts of last night rang true.

The flutter of her hands as she lifted them back up, resolutely returning to removing her hairpins, caught his eye, and he noticed with a gentle twist around his heart that her fingers were bare.  A quick slide to the dressing room table nearby acknowledged the ring's presence there, scattered carelessly amid the make-up, and Spike returned his gaze to her face, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Don't know rightly what to call you," he said nonchalantly.  "Anne, or Buffy, or maybe even Frankie if the mood suits."

There was the slightest of hesitations in her movements before she replied.  "I don't remember asking you to call me anything," she said, her tone business-like, and tossed a handful of pins onto the table.  "Is that how you found me?  You beat up the hotel clerk for information?"

Spike shrugged.  "Didn't have to.  He seemed very open to my methods of persuasion.  Least I can thank you for not bein' a skipout, though I would've been more than happy to foot the bill for as much fun as I had last night.  To answer your question, though, no.  You covered your tracks there pretty well.  I'd almost think you were a pro at that sort of thing, or something."

"How then…?"  Her lips thinned as the other possibility dawned on her.  "Remind me to add Willy to my list of dead men," she said.

Slowly, Spike shook his head.  "No, can't be laying the blame at his feet either," he said.  "He wasn't around when I went around there to shake your real name out of him."  He couldn't resist any longer, and lifted his hand to skim over her clavicle, inwardly rejoicing when he saw the goosebumps erupt along her arms.  "Found you completely by accident," he murmured.  "Trust me.  You were the last person I expected to see up on that stage tonight."

She swallowed, and when she lowered her arms, dropping the remaining hairpins to the table at her side, her hair fell in waves about her shoulders.  "There's no such thing as accidents," Buffy said, and for a moment, he thought he heard a tinge of bitterness in her words.  "People just call them that to cover up the truth."

"And an hour ago, I would've agreed with you, pet," Spike replied.  "Then you walked out on that stage, and I thought…meant to be.  'Course, that was before your fiancé decided to put you and your finger on display.  But still, makes a bloke start waxing philosophical when one absolutely amazing night turns itself into two."

She jerked away at that, finally lengthening the distance between them to stride over to her dressing chair.  "There is no two, Spike," she said firmly.  "I told you that last night."  

He watched as she fumbled with her make-up, pushing aside various bottles before picking up a small washcloth and looking into the mirror.  "Right," he drawled, and crossed behind her, watching her in her reflection as she began swiping at the color on her cheeks, tingeing her cloth in rouge.  "Because you're all engaged-like now.  Kind of puts a crimp in the dating thing, I'd imagine."

"Yes, I _am_ engaged."  She was diligently avoiding looking at him, concentrating instead on divesting herself of her make-up.  "And Angel is a very powerful man.  Do you have any idea who his father is?"

"The Mayor."

She seemed genuinely surprised that he could answer her question.  Buffy's eyes darted up to meet his resolute ones, searching them briefly before returning to her task, but Spike couldn't help but notice the faintest hint of a smile playing on her lips.  "So you're as smart as I think you are," she said.  "That means you'll turn yourself around, go back out front, and not come here again."

His gaze was engrossed with her mouth, bare of the lipstick that had stained it onstage, lips slightly swollen from the scrubbing she gave it as she wiped it clean.  "Speaking of smart," he said, ignoring her order, "I could've sworn I had you pegged for havin' a brain in that pretty little head of yours.  But a bird with a brain would know better than to get herself mixed up with the likes of Angel Wilkins."

"You don't know anything about me, Spike---."  Her words were choked when his hands came to rest on her shoulders, long fingers sliding beneath the straps of her gown to stroke the skin underneath in rhythmic caresses that quickened her breathing.  Mesmerized, she sat motionless as he lowered his head to run his lips along the curve of her neck, unconsciously tilting her head to allow him better access.

"Know more than you want to believe, Buffy," he rumbled against her flesh.  His hands pushed aside the straps so they fell lifelessly down her arms, their weight pulling the bodice of her dress down with them, and slid his touch to her exposed breasts, cupping them gently as his thumbs grazed over their hardened tips.

Buffy gasped, her back arching to strengthen the contact, one arm reaching up and behind to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.  It was all the encouragement he needed.  With a muffled groan, Spike circled his arm around her waist, lifting her from her chair, thankful for her gown falling of its own accord to the floor.  He went to push the seat out of his way but she beat him to it, knocking it sideways as she twisted in his embrace, just as she had the previous night.

When her mouth met his, though, all vestiges of the gentleness from their first encounter were discarded, to be replaced with a forceful want as Buffy's hands clawed at his shoulders, her tongue plunging into the hot chasm of his mouth, sweeping and swirling as she gave in to the arousal that had been seeping through her limbs ever since she'd spotted him in the audience.  Rational thought disappeared as she felt him lift her onto the dressing table, sending her make-up scattering to the floor.  All she was aware of was the silken glide of his hands across her breasts, his fingers working expertly to create those familiar shudders down her spine, the taste of his whiskey-soaked tongue as it battled with hers for dominance.

This wasn't what he'd been planning when he'd decided to seek her out, but now, in the throes of feeling her beneath his palms, it seemed like the most natural resolution of their meeting, drawn to her as inexplicably as he'd been before, everything outside of the few square feet that housed them disappearing in a whirlpool.  So much heat, and he could feel the sweat dripping down his back where he was sure she was leaving scratches.  When she pushed at his jacket, Spike helped her by shrugging himself out of it, not even aware when she whipped it across the room.  More, and more, and all he wanted was to drown in her kisses, her supple form undulating beneath his touch, urging him for more.

Buffy was the one who freed him from his trousers, small hand squeezing around its base as her thumb stroked its length.  Spike groaned, pulling away from her mouth for the first time since initiating the kiss, and buried himself in her neck, sliding his hands down her back and underneath her silken panties to grasp her ass.

"I love how you make me feel," she whispered into his shirt.

He was certain she hadn't meant for him to hear it.  Her voice was strangled, like the words hurt to come out, and he closed his eyes against the memory of her face as Angel had put his arm around her.  Not goin' to think about that, Spike thought.  Just goin' to think of her as mine.  The rest of the world can sod off.  Focusing his efforts on getting rid of the flimsy scrap of fabric that separated her from him instead, he felt it tear in his grasp, his haste making him clumsy, before tossing it aside to join the other clothes on the floor.

She didn't wait for him.  Lifting her legs to hook around his hips, Buffy guided him to her, holding him there for just a moment as she looked up into his desire-darkened eyes.  Her mouth opened as if she was going to say something, and Spike realized he was holding his breath, waiting for the words to come tumbling out of her mouth.

They didn't come.  Instead, she released her hold on him and slid down his length as she clung desperately to his shoulders.

His growl was unexpected, the sudden tremors shooting up his spine driving his mouth back to hers in a bruising savagery that took both of them by surprise.  Spike's fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady even as she rooted herself with her own arms tight around his neck.  

Where the previous night had been about need, this was about want, animal hunger driving both of them to a deafening crescendo as everything around them was stripped away, leaving behind only their striated nerves, hungry for more, panting and gasping and keeping and demanding as she came to a shuddering climax against his chest.

When he came, Spike tore himself from her lips to press his forehead into her shoulder, his eyes closed, his lashes tickling her sweat-damp skin.  He felt her hand come up to his hair, soothing down the curls that always seem to spring to life in these circumstances, and swallowed, trying to force down the lump that had formed in his throat.

He was lost.  He should've known that when he'd gone back to St. Christopher's that morning o St. he'd'he lump that had formed in his throat.

ers, eyes closed, life.

 both of them to a crescendothem by surprto seek out the information on her identity.  That wasn't his usual style; not since Dru had a woman gotten to him as badly as Buffy Summers had.  And not because she was a pretty face, either.  No, what got to him was the strength inside her that she tried so desperately to protect, to shield from outside interference.  It was the uncanny way she had of seeing right through him, as if all his thoughts and all his beliefs could be read on his face like some Dick and Jane book.

And it was the certainty he felt when he was with her that if he just looked in the right direction, everything would be all right.

She was the one to pull away first, releasing her grip to slide herself off him, off the dressing table, to reach for the robe that hung nearby.  "You should probably get out of here," she said quietly, not looking him in the eye.  "Angel has a habit of coming up after my shows."  A quick glance at the door was accompanied by a frown.  "I'm kind of surprised he hasn't shown up already."

His gaze was contemplative as he carefully tucked himself away, rearranging his clothing.  "Maybe it's better if I'm here when he shows," Spike said.  "That way, we can get all this out in the open right here, right now."

Buffy's eyes flew wide.  "Nothing's getting out in the open," she said.  "This was a mistake.  A very…nice mistake, but still…a mistake.  I'm not breaking off my engagement with Angel just because I happen to find you attractive---."

He was in front of her before she could blink, hands tight around her upper arms, eyes blazing in sapphire as he glared down at her.  "You're right," he bit out, anger replacing his euphoria as he fought the impulse to try and shake some sense into her.  "You shouldn't go callin' off the wedding on my account.  You should do it because you don't love the wanker."

"I do!"

His eyebrow lifted.  "That why you went out looking for someone to make you feel beautiful, pet?" he queried.  "'Cause seems to me, a woman in love should already have that if the bloke's worth his salt at all."

Pause.  "Angel says I'm beautiful all the time."  Her voice was firm, her gaze firmer, and she met his eyes with an assurance he was certain she didn't feel.

"Hearing it and believing it are two entirely separate things," Spike replied.  He shook his head, the first wave of his anger already starting to dissipate.  "Stick with him, and you're goin to get hurt.  I can promise you that."

Deliberately, Buffy pulled herself from his grasp and opened the door behind her, holding it wide so that anyone who paid attention could see and hear what was happening inside.  "You can promise me nothing, Spike," she said, ice dripping from her words.  "Now I suggest you get out of my dressing room before I have Jonathan call the cops.  My…business with you is over."

The muscles twitched in his cheek as he clenched his jaw, and he stared at her for a full minute, not moving, daring her to turn away first.  "It's far from over, pet," he finally said, reaching for his jacket on the floor.  Sliding his arms into the dark fabric, he paused in the doorway to gaze down at her, his eyes flashing.  "New York's not _that_ big of a city that you won't see me again. And I've got plans to be around for awhile."

And with that, he was gone.

*************

She was shaking as she closed the door behind him, and leaned her head back against the wood, lids fluttering shut as she fought to stave off the swell of emotion rising in her gut.  What the hell am I doing? Buffy wondered.  One night.  It was just supposed to be one night.  A last-minute fling before Angel made the engagement final and sneaking around was going to be impossible.  And she had to find the one guy in the whole of New York who she actually seemed to connect to, who made the crazy world around her make sense, and who was determined to fuck this up for her, no matter what.

A deep breath, and some of the tremors seemed to soften, allowing her to at least open her eyes and view the mess she had made of her dressing room, the make-up haphazard across the floor, her engagement ring twinkling back at her from where it was lodged underneath the chair.  Part of her wasn't surprised that it had happened.  Something deep inside her had been switched on the moment she saw him in the audience, and she'd spent the entire set reliving the touch of his body against hers.  Sex with Angel was good, but sex with Spike was…well, not just sex.  She hadn't been lying when she'd told him he made her feel beautiful.  She didn't know how he did it, but right now, the one thing she couldn't afford was the luxury of trying to find out.

Forget about him, Buffy willed herself as she began cleaning up the disarray.  He's not your concern.  If he doesn't listen to you, it's his own fault if he gets hurt.

Because she knew he would.  If Spike insisted on pushing this, someone was going to end up dead.  

And she really didn't want it to be him.

To be continued in Chapter 5: At the Hour of Three…


	5. At the Hour of Three

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Another encounter between Buffy and Spike has only confirmed for the ex-hitman his interest in the singer, though she was adamant about being engaged to Angel.  Willow met Wesley, the manager at Heaven, while Xander spent time with Angel at Spike's request…

*************

His fingers drummed along the top of the desk, his eyes bleary behind his spectacles.  Ten to three and not one of them had shown up yet for their first night debriefing.  No calls, no messages.  Nothing.  He felt like the suspicious father waiting for the children to sneak in past curfew, and damned if that didn't make him angrier at the trio.  He wasn't their bloody parent, and it was hardly fair that they made him feel this way.

Although it was behavior he could expect from Xander and Spike, Giles was surprised at Willow's tardiness.  Normally, she was quite obsessive about being early; just that evening she had scolded him unmercifully for not getting her to Heaven in time to do her paperwork.  Their meeting place was even here in her hotel room, the time her idea.  It was peculiar that she would not have arrived hours ago, let alone so close to what they had deemed their cut-off time.  Of course, they had agreed that three would be the _latest they should show up, and there were still ten minutes left._

He glanced at his watch.  Correction.  Nine minutes left.

Where in blazes were they?

*************

Carefully, she set the pen down and placed her hands in her lap, lifting her head to wait for him to notice her completion.  At his insistence, Willow was seated at his desk, while Wesley sat in the chair opposite, a stack of papers balanced precariously on his knee, his head bowed as he squinted at the rows of numbers.  Occasionally, he would scribble a notation, but his absorption in his work was complete, his awareness of her presence nonexistent.

Their conversation after the misfire of their introduction had been brief, ending in his departure for his office at the rear of the club, but minutes before Heaven was set to close, Wesley had reappeared, an apologetic smile brightening his tired eyes.

"I'm aware you've already made arrangements to come in tomorrow to do your necessary papers," he'd said, "but I thought, perhaps, if you weren't too fatigued from your first night, you might prefer to do them now.  It's completely your discretion, of course," he'd rushed to add, but she had cut him off with a beaming smile.

"No, that would be great," she'd said.

"You're certain?  You have no…_other _engagements?"

His words had been cautious, his gaze speculative, and briefly, Willow remembered the meeting set for three back at her hotel.  It's only paperwork, she'd thought, shaking her head in denial to his question.  How long could that take?

A surreptitious glance at the clock on Wesley's office wall told her exactly how long it had taken.  An hour and twenty minutes.  It wouldn't have been so bad except Wesley insisted on having three copies of everything and had spent the first ten minutes after getting to his office apologizing for having run out of carbon paper.  So, she had set out to transcribe everything in triplicate, grateful that she had refreshed her memory on the statistics she was using for this particular assignment so that she didn't have to waste any more time wracking her head for details.

He still hadn't noticed she was done.  Chewing at her lip, Willow debated how best to get his attention, finally settling for a simple throat clearing as the least disruptive method.

It could've been a gunshot for the reaction she got.  At the sound, Wesley's knee jerked, sending the papers in his lap scattering in every which direction, his eyes widening as his head snapped up.  Willow straightened reflexively in her chair, watching his arms flail as they fought to catch his work before it settled to the ground, only to bite back the giggles that rose to her lips as he instead tangled in his chair and landed on the floor in a heap.

"I'm done," she said unnecessarily, rising slightly to see him poke his head up from the other side of the desk.

"Good, good," Wesley replied.

"Do you…need any help down there?"

His head disappeared again.  "No, I've got it," he said, his voice muffled.

Willow sat back down in the chair as the rustling of papers filled her ears.  In so many ways, he reminded her of a young stallion unaccustomed to his own legs as he took his first sprint of the spring, lanky yet sleek, powerful yet slightly clumsy within his own frame.  A very well-shaped frame, she couldn't help but adding, and blushed at her audacity.  He's your boss, she thought.  A potentially evil and murderous boss considering who he works for.

But as he stood up, his work clutched to his chest, he couldn't have looked less threatening, smiling awkwardly down at her as a faint stain colored his cheeks.  "I get rather absorbed," he explained in apology, and dumped the papers on the filing cabinet against the wall before turning back to face her.  "Did you have any questions?"

She shook her head.  "Just your everyday, run of the mill, boring paperwork.  A cakewalk compared to what I'm normally used to."

"Normally used to?" he queried, his brow slightly furrowed.

Oops, Willow thought.  I'm a coat check girl here, not fact finding girl.  Think, think…

Before she could respond, Wesley had picked up the top copy and immediately smiled.  "You have lovely penmanship," he commented.

She still needed to distract him from her mistake.  Seizing the pen she had just set down, she held it out to him.  "Only because of this," she said.  "It's a Mont Blanc, right?"  Their fingertips grazed the other's as he took it from her, causing Willow to hesitate in its release, holding the contact for a fraction longer than was necessary.  What had she been thinking about?  Oh, right, the pen.  "I've never used one before," she went on to say.  "But it writes beautifully."

"Yes.  It's a Meisterstück.  Award-winning design, I believe.  I got it as a gift from Mr. Wilkins for exemplary service."

The mention of the Mayor drove all romantic notions from Willow's mind, and she stiffened in her seat.  "Does he ever come to the clubs?" she asked casually.  Now was as good a time as any to start digging to get any information that might actually be useful for the hit.  "You know, so I know to be on my best behavior and not accidentally flirt with him, too."

This last earned her a smile, and Wesley nodded.  "I'm quite proud to say he and Angel both prefer Heaven's atmosphere to their other holdings'," he said.  "Their patronage is quite frequent.  Angel was here this evening, in fact."

"Oh, I know."

"You do?"

Darn it, she'd done it again.  She was normally so good at this---posing as whatever Spike or Giles wanted in order to gather information---so why all of a sudden was she having problems keeping her mouth straight with Wesley?

"He…talked to me," she managed to stammer.  That was something he wouldn't think to check up on.  It certainly sounded plausible.  She hoped.

"Oh dear."  Behind his spectacles, Wesley frowned, and he perched himself on the corner of the desk, pulling off his glasses to gaze at her in apology.  "I was hoping I'd get the opportunity to discuss this with you before anything…unseemly happened.  Now I'm _really_ sorry I wasn't here when you arrived this evening."

"Huh?"

He seemed oblivious to her confusion as he continued.  "I suspect that his attentions were why the last coat check girl left," he mused.  "Angel has quite the eye for the ladies.  I was rather hoping his engagement to Buffy would temper that."

She had heard about the engagement, and only the fact that it had just happened today tempered the redhead's dismay at missing that particular detail in her research about his personal life.  Upon Willow's initial arrival at Heaven, she had briefly met the other staff, including Buffy, but had heard nothing more until the blonde singer had left for the evening.  It was then that she'd discovered the fiancée connection.

Angel had come chasing after Buffy, grabbing her arm as she'd attempted to leave.  She had been flustered, much less composed than she'd been at the start of the night, and her words to the tall young man had been sharp.

"I have a headache," she'd complained.  "You got your little show and tell, Angel.  What more do you want from me?"

His hand had slid around her waist, meaty fingers digging into her narrow waist.  "I thought we could go out and celebrate," he'd crooned.  "Big night for us, you know.  It's not every day an angel agrees to marry an Angel."  He'd laughed at his own joke, and it had been all Willow could do not to roll her eyes in disgust.

"Well, this angel needs some shut-eye, so you'll just have to do the celebrating on your own."  Buffy had yanked herself from his grasp then, turning on her heel to march out the front door of the club, leaving her bewildered fiancé fuming in the foyer.

Willow hadn't seen Angel again until he'd emerged an hour later with Xander full in tow.  Her eyes had widened when she'd caught her friend's gaze, complete with his what-can-I-do shrug that said he was going along for the ride, wherever that might be, and she'd waited for Spike to come out after.  He never did.  Even when the club was closed, he was nowhere to be found, and she found herself wondering just how he'd gotten out without her seeing him.

Remembering her partners drove Willow to her feet, as a quick glance at the clock confirmed just how late it really was.  "I have to go," she said quickly.  "It's late, and…"  What else to say?  She'd already told him she didn't have anything else scheduled, and she couldn't really admit that she had to get back to her friends so that she could dish on everything she'd learned tonight, now could she?  "…and…it's late."

Concern immediately darkened his eyes, and Wesley stood, looking down at his watch.  "I hadn't realized," he said, but by the time he'd looked up again, she was already standing at the door, her hand on the knob.  "Let me call you a cab."

Willow shook her head.  "I'm fine.  I'll just get the train."

"At this hour?  I don't think so.  I'll call a cab.  You can wait in the foyer until it arrives.  It's hardly safe for a lady to be wandering the streets of New York at this time of night all on her own."

She watched as he picked up the phone, punching in a number from memory, and smiled in spite of the inconvenience waiting was going to cause.  Spike and Giles were going to kill her, but right now, all Willow could think about was how nicely her employer's shoulders filled out his crisp white shirt as he stood with his back to her.  A gentleman, too, she mused.  Definitely too good to be true, which means he's most certainly on the side of the bad guys.  I've got a feeling I'm going to have to keep reminding myself of that.

"Five minutes," he announced proudly as he set down the phone, as if he'd just made an appointment for her with the Queen.  "And I promise that tomorrow night, I will not keep you so late."

She smiled.  "Thanks.  I guess I'll…see you tomorrow then.  G'night."  And with a waggle of her fingers, she was gone.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Wesley's smile faded, his eyes growing serious as they flickered down to the paperwork she'd left sitting on the desk.  Picking up the copy with which he'd noted her penmanship, he began scanning over the text.  "Who _are you, Willow Rosenberg?" he mused.  "And just what are you doing here at Heaven?"_

*************

He was in hell.  There was no doubt about it.  He was in hell, and he was going to burn there for eternity because as soon as Anya found out where he'd spent the night, she was going to kill him.  

Saying it wasn't his fault wouldn't work either.  Spike had told him to stick to Angel, and that's what he'd done.  How could he have known he'd bring him to this kind of place?  He was engaged to be married, to that incredible Buffy Summers, so why Angel felt the need to frequent a joint like this was beyond Xander's understanding.  OK, so it did look to be more of a high-class knocking shop than he'd seen from other assignments with Spike, but that didn't change the fact that it was still a brothel.

He was dead meat for sure.

A tinkle of laughter cascaded down his spine, and he held himself rigid as a small hand curled around his wrist.  "Someone's being a stick in the mud," the feminine voice singsonged, and Xander looked up to see the pouting face of the blonde he'd been left with gazing down at him.  "Come on," she coaxed.  "All you've done is sit there and mope all night.  I want to have some fun."

He pressed himself back into the chair, feeling the ornate curves cutting into his skin through his coat, as she slid herself onto his lap.  "Look, I told you," he said, and lifted his eyes up and away from the stocking-clad legs that were suddenly bared to him.  "I'm just waiting for my friend."

"Oh, he's going to be awhile," she said, sliding her arm around his shoulders.  "Him and Darla can go all night."

Great, he thought.  Just great.  Not only is he a cheating son of a bitch, but he's a cheating son of a bitch with the stamina of a horse.  Tell me, where's the karmic balance in that?

Out loud, he said, "I don't suppose I can get a cup of joe?  I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open here."

She laughed and straddled him, the curve of her breasts poking out over the top of her translucent dressing gown.  "I like your peepers," she said, pushing back the hair from his forehead to look down at them.  "Like melted chocolate just oozing---."

She landed with a thump to the floor when he stood abruptly up.  "Coffee," Xander said.  "I just want some coffee.  No nooky.  No chocolate fantasies.  Just coffee."

The pout she affected at his brusque behavior lasted for only as long as it took her to rise to her feet.  "An Irish coffee?" she suggested.  "It might…relax you a bit."

"I don't need to be any more relaxed than I already am, thank you very much."  He sighed.  "Just make it black, OK, toots?"

"The name's Harmony," the blonde said with a small stamp of her foot.  "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Harmony.  Right.  Got it now."  He waited expectantly for a minute, but when she didn't move, he prompted, "The coffee?"

He fell into the chair when she'd left, his head banging against the wrought curve of the seat's back.  Chat him up, Spike had said.  Keep him distracted so I can talk to the songbird, Spike had said.  Don't pay any attention when I disappear without a trace, leaving you without a clue as to what is going on, but stick to your orders because that's what I asked you to do.

Xander's chest heaved as he exhaled loudly, staring at the boudoir-dressed room around him, hearing Anya's voice inside his head announcing her wedding vows, smelling Harmony's cheap perfume that still hung cloyingly in the air.

Friend or not, Spike was a dead man.

*************

Sliding down his throat in a lethargic burn, the whiskey eased the knots within the swell of his shoulders, loosening them to molten waves that slumped as Spike sat at the bar.  Its amber magic succeeded in its assault on his body, but it did nothing but exacerbate the tumult inside his head, honing the memory of the golden outline of her body as she stood beneath the stage lights, sharpening the sweet tang of her tongue as it swirled with his as he thrust inside her.  Bloody figures the drink would make Buffy more real to me, he thought irritably, and took another swig of the alcohol, draining the glass this time.  So determined not to look at what's goin' on here between us, running me out so that she can hide behind the poofter's soddin' family.  This one's for you, pet, he silently toasted as he poured out another shot from the bottle the bartender had left for him.  This one's for you.

Harris was probably furious with him for taking a run-out, leaving him to fend for himself with Angel, but going back into the club, knowing she was insisting on marrying the git, would've been too dangerous for Spike and he knew it.  Seeing that smug face would've been the only incentive he needed to provoke him into a fight, or worse, pulling out his heater and drilling the guy right in his own club.  Then, it wouldn't have made a difference what kind of blackmail material those shyster lawyers had on him.  The cops would've shown their mugs in minutes, and Spike's ass would've been hauled down to the clubhouse faster than a whore could spread her legs, leaving Red and Ripper defenseless in the hands of whoever wanted this job done.

Couldn't have that.  Wouldn't be right.

So he'd ducked out the back, nearly knocking over that little Jonathan in the process, and spent the next three hours wandering from bar to bar, drinking as much as they would let him before giving him the boot.  A brisk walk in the cool night air would lend an air of sobriety to him long enough for him to get served in the next watering hole, and thus the evening ran, until here he was, hiding away in the mangiest joint he'd seen in years, all because it was after hours for any legal establishment to still be open.

He glanced at his watch, the hands slightly blurry.  Three o'clock.  Wasn't something supposed to be happening at three?

"Think you've reached your limit, bub," the bartender said as Spike tipped the empty bottle over his glass, watching the last remaining drops trickle from its mouth.  "Need for me to call you a ride?"

Staring at the light filtering through the dark whiskey bottle, Spike turned it over and over in his hands.  "You got a girl?" he asked, ignoring the bartender's query.

The barkeep shook his head.  "Figures that this is about a dame," he commented, and gently extracted the bottle from Spike's hands.  "All my heaviest drinkers come in here because of some dame."

"She keeps tryin' to make me take it on the heel and toe," he said, his voice somber.  "Like what we have doesn't mean anything to her when I know it does."

"Is she pretty?"

The separate memories rose together, juxtaposed as only the mind can do---her freshly scrubbed face from her dressing room looking back at him as she laughed and argued with him about the merits of Sonja Henie's acting.  The corner of Spike's mouth lifted.  "Beautiful," he murmured.

"Maybe the better question is…is she worth it?"

The memories were a deluge then, pouring over his skin like a warm maternal embrace---her body curving into his as they slept, molding to him as if they were specifically made to match; the naked pain in her eyes as she'd begged him to say she was beautiful; the arch of her words as she sung to the unseen suitor at the back of Heaven's dance floor; the peace that had seeped through his enervated muscles when he'd woken at St. Christopher's just that morning.

"Yeah," Spike said as if it was the easiest decision in the world.  "She's worth it."

"Then my advice is, don't give up.  Sooner or later, the dames always come around.  I don't peg you as some kind of rube, so I don't think I have to tell you not to be stupid about it.  Just do what it takes to get the job done.  She'll see the light."

That's when it clicked.  He didn't have to take this sitting back, getting smoked, crying over his drink about the woman who had just tried wrenching out his heart with her bare hands.  He was William the Fucking Bloody.  He had power.  He had connections.  He could do this with one hand tied behind his back and a gun pointed at his temple.  She'd been lying about things being over between them; both of them knew it.  Time for him to make sure it stayed that way.

Tossing a couple of bills onto the counter, Spike rose to his feet and gave the bartender a jaunty salute.  "Thanks for the tip, mate," he said and turned on his heel to weave his way to the door.

The bartender waited until the door had groaned to a shut again before picking up the money.  His eyes widened at the amount.  Two hundred dollars for the same advice he shilled to anyone complaining about woman troubles?  Not too shabby.  He almost hoped the bleached guy would get the girl; no reason why everyone that night shouldn't have a happy ending.

*************

He stopped at the first payphone he came across, digging into his pockets for change before leaning heavily against the thick glass, exhaustion beginning to take over his mind.  Just have to keep up with it long enough to get this sorted, Spike thought.  Then, I'll get myself back to the hotel, have a good kip, and wake up tomorrow to my usual hangover.  Sweet, blessed routine.

It took him three attempts to remember the number, and as the phone rang at the other end, Spike focused on the image of Buffy staring back at him in her dressing room mirror, using it to root himself in his task at hand.

"Hello?"  The voice was groggy, but familiar, and something inside the blond leapt in excitement.

"Well, well, lookie what the cat dragged in," he drawled, unable to refrain from smiling.

There was a pause.  "William?"  The voice was more alert now, an edge of enthusiasm already beginning to tinge it in red.  "Is that you?"

"The one and only.  How're you doin', Clem?"

From the other end of the line, Spike could hear the faint rustling of sheets being thrown back, a light being turned on.  "It's three o'clock in the morning, William," Clem said, now fully awake.  "Where the heck are you?"

"Would you believe it, I'm in New York."

"No!"

He couldn't but smile at the gusto behind the single word.  "'Fraid so," he replied.  

"Does Dru know?"

"No, and I'd like to keep it that way, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, sure, William, not a problem.  Whatever you say.  My lips are sealed."  There was a pause.  "If you're not in town because of Dru, why _are_ you here?"

"Just a job, but that's not what I called you about.  I need to ask a favor."

"Hey, for you, anything.  Just say the word.  You need a place to hide or something?"

"I need you to keep an eye on a girl for me.  Tell me where she goes, who she sees during the day.  I can do it at night, but this other job's goin' to take a good part of my sunshine time."  He didn't doubt what the response was going to be.  They went way back to his days in the family, and if there was anyone Spike trusted with something as delicate as this, it was his old pal Clem.

"Is that all?  You don't need me to do anything else, like…talk to her, right?"

He almost laughed at the nervousness that suddenly appeared in his friend's voice.  It was nice to know some things never changed.  Dealing with the fairer sex in an interpersonal way had never been Clem's strong suit; too many years of being looked upon as a freak had scarred the gentle soul's psyche beyond offering anything more than the eager hand of friendship.  "No, mate," he said.  "Just follow her around."

"OK."  There was the sound of a drawer being opened, paper being pulled out.  "What's the skirt's name?"

Spike sighed.  "Buffy Summers."

*************

She wanted to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, all Buffy could see were those blue eyes staring back at her in her dressing room mirror, willing her to see what she refused to admit.  It was her own fault.  She knew that.  If she'd just left well enough alone and not tried to find an escape before she gave Angel her answer, everything would be just jake right now.  She wouldn't be lying in her bed, staring at her ceiling, incapable of getting thoughts of a certain blond out of her head, wondering what in hell she was doing in going through with this stupid scheme of marrying into the Wilkins family.

It hadn't been her original plan, but when Angel had proposed, the opportunity it offered her seemed too good to refuse.  She could be so much more effective if she was that much deeper in, and if it got the results she wanted, did it matter if she had to sell just a little bit of her soul in order for it to happen?

Only problem was, now she wanted that part of her soul back so that she could give it to Spike.

It was the first time in three years that she'd considered backing out.  That's what scared her more than anything.  So much had driven her to get to this point, and all it seemed to take was two nights with a relative stranger to have her thinking maybe it was time to pack it in.

Two _amazing_ nights, she hastened to amend.

Still…amazing or not, was it worth it?  How could she sacrifice everything she had been working for, all on a whim with the eyes of the devil himself?  

No, she had to set it aside; it didn't matter what _she wanted.  The only thing that mattered was the mission.  She just had to remember that._

When she rolled over onto her side, the streetlights through her window bounced off the alarm clock that sat on her nightstand, illuminating its face, and Buffy did what she always did when she saw what time it was.  She calculated what time it was in California.

Midnight.  Everyone would be sleeping in California right about now.  I would wake them if I picked up the phone and called.  Not that it matters anyway.

There's nobody left there for me to call anymore.

*************

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Lindsey muttered as he tightened the belt around his robe.  He rubbed at his eyes as he picked up the phone.  "Hello?"

"The Mayor is still alive, Mr. McDonald."

The sound of the other man's voice drew the breath from the lawyer's lungs, and he fell into the chair behind his desk, eyes closed.  "Do you have any idea what time it is here?" he said.  "Unlike you, I work during the day.  Generally, I try to be sleeping around this hour.  And what the hell are you doing calling me at home anyway?"

"Just checking up on our deal.  Rook's been in town for two days and hasn't made a move yet.  I'm concerned he may back out on our arrangement."

"He won't renege," Lindsey assured.  "But if it makes you feel better, I'll call tomorrow and light a fire under him."  He stifled his yawn.  No need to piss this guy off even more.

"Make sure it's a very _hot_ fire, Mr. McDonald.  My partner and I are beginning to get anxious."

"That's why you pay me the moolah, right?"

"Hm.  Right.  I'll call back tomorrow to find out how it went."

When the other line went dead, it took a moment for Lindsey to return the phone back to its cradle.  He knew why he'd gotten this particular case; he had a certain way with this type of client.  But for once, he was beginning to wish that he could just hand it over to one of his colleagues and take a long vacation from it all.  A clean break.  That's what he needed.

Maybe once this Rook business was sorted.

To be continued in Chapter 6: The Pursuing Shadow…


	6. The Pursuing Shadow

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Everyone missed the first meeting---Spike because he was getting drunk and then arranging for his old pal Clem to follow Buffy during the day, Xander because he was stuck at a brothel all night waiting for Angel, and Willow because Wesley asked her to stay after and fill out her paperwork…

*************

His head was resting on the doorjamb as he knocked at the door, his eyelids mostly closed as his exhausted arm fell uselessly to his side.  From inside the room, Xander could hear the distant rustling of papers, followed immediately by light footsteps, but as the door opened before him, he didn't even have the strength to look up and see Willow's waiting face.

"You better have coffee," he complained, a sleepy slurring making his words sound like something coming out of a broken victrola.  

"I have tea," Willow offered, trying to sound more helpful than she felt. She grimaced at his wrinkled suit, the wafts of cheap perfume clinging to his clothes assailing her nostrils as he stumbled past her. "You look awful.  What happened to you last night?"          "What happened?"  He stopped just inside the doorway and gaped at his friend.  "Our friend Spike decided to breeze off, leaving me with Mr. Personality and his quest for the all-night orgasm, _that's_ what happened."  When her eyes went wide, Xander realized what it sounded like he'd said and shook his head.  "Don't be a bunny.  I didn't mean with me.  I spent the night at some high-class whorehouse.  And when I get my hands on Spike---."

"Have you slept at all?  Why did you come here instead of going to your place?"

He blushed and rubbed tiredly at his face.  "You're going to think I'm a real boob, but I'm too tired to remember which hotel I'm booked in at," he admitted.  He began stumbling back down the narrow hall that led to the main area of her room.  "Where's that tea?  Because as soon as I'm awake enough, I'm going to find Spike and---."

Xander came to a halt as he stepped into the room, eyes settling grimly on the sprawled form of his bleached friend on the bed.  At the desk, Giles slept as well, his head resting solidly against the wood, his glasses pushed crookedly onto his forehead.  "Well, at least I found Spike," he said, his voice automatically dropping in volume.

Willow came up beside him.  "I haven't had the heart to wake either of them," she said, matching his tone.  "I found Giles like that when I got in, and then Spike showed up, drunk off his ass, and passed out before I could get two words from him."  She waved towards the open door of the bathroom, and the paperwork that was spread throughout its floor.  "I've been working in there so I wouldn't disturb them."

He rolled his eyes.  "Well, I'm not above disturbing them," he said, and kicked at the bed as he collapsed onto the mattress next to Spike.  An elbow that was meant to be swift but moved more like fish flopping out of water poked the blond in the ribs.  "Hey, Rip Van Winkle.  Get your ass in gear so that I can kick it to hell and back."

A muffled groan escaped Spike's throat, and a tired hand batted back at Xander.  "Sleeping," he mumbled, but his head turned to blink groggily at the other man in the bed with him.  "Bugger off."

"What is it with people wanting me to have sex tonight?" he complained.  "First Harmony and her nighttime nooky.  Now Spike and his damn English euphemisms that, frankly, threaten my heterosexuality just a little bit here---."

"Who's Harmony?" Willow asked.

"The skirt I got shackled with when Angel went off to play pickle-me tickle-me with that Darla dame."

"Xander!"  Her flush of embarrassment disappeared into the roots of her hair, and she backed up, away from the bed and toward the desk.  "I'm going to put the kettle on for some tea."

The mention of Angel's name drove Spike upward, propping himself up on his elbow to look at Xander through narrowed, glittering eyes.  "What's this?" he asked.  "What happened last night?"

He gestured toward the desk.  "Wake up Giles," Xander said.  "I'm not doing the floor show on this twice."

Willow had reached over, ready to shake the older man awake, when Spike leapt from the bed, all signs of his fatigue gone, and crossed the few feet to grasp him firmly by the shoulder.  "Rise and shine, Ripper," he said.  "No more rest for the wicked here."

Blinking against the sunshine streaming in through the window, Giles frowned, fumbling to replace his glasses as he straightened in his chair.  "What time is it?" he asked, and squinted at his watch.

"Time for that meeting we all seemed to miss last night," Spike said, pulling the crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket before going in search of his lighter.

"Spike.  Window."  Willow pointed from his smokes to the glass, her resolve face firmly in place.

"Where in blazes _were_ all of you last night?" Giles erupted as Spike perched himself on the sill.  "Do you have any idea how _late_ I stayed up for you?  Are we not professionals here?  And not one of you had the decency to call, or show up, or even send me a message about why you thought our first real conference was something you could afford to miss."

Around the cigarette that was stuck between his lips, Spike smirked at the vehemence in his friend's voice, tugging at the sash to let in the sounds from the street.  "You about done there, Rip?"

Giles' shoulders sagged, his energy spent in his tirade.  "Yes.  Is someone making tea?"

"That would be me," Willow said.  She set to work with the cups and kettle.  "So who's going to start?"

Spike pointed at Xander's inert form on the bed.  "I want to hear what Harris has to say.  Something tells me it's going to be a doozy."

"Doozy, floozy, ring around the roozy," the brunette mumbled.  "Courtesy of the let's abandon Xander brigade, headed by our nearest and not so dearest Spike."

"Couldn't be helped, mate."

"Try using that one on Anya when she's eviscerating you for landing me in a brothel all night.  My guess is she's not going to be interested in hearing your excuses."

"Wait."  Giles sat up, peering from one man to the other.  "You two were separated last night?  What happened?"

Rolling on to his side, Xander briefly outlined Angel's appearance, the engagement announcement, and Spike's subsequent orders.  "But he never came back," he finished, shooting his friend a dirty look.  "And I was stuck trying to entertain Junior all on my little lonesome."

"That singer had me kicked out," Spike said.  He'd already decided the others didn't need to know the details about what had happened, and settled on the slight distortion of the truth as a means of covering his true involvement with Buffy.  They would have a thousand questions he wasn't ready to answer, and Giles would most likely posit more than a dozen arguments about why he shouldn't get involved in someone so closely linked to their case.  Better they didn't know.  It would be easier all around until he figured out how to get Buffy out of this mess.

"Are _you_ the reason she was all upset?" Willow asked the blond.  "I was wondering why she didn't want to go with Angel when he came after her."

The sudden thought that Buffy had refused her fiance's attention because of him caused Spike to smile, and he turned his head toward the open window to hide it, expelling the smoke in his lungs as the grin played on his lips.  Over, is it? he thought, remembering her parting words.  Not bloody likely.  

"She didn't like some of the…questions I had to ask," he said to no one in particular.  "Threatened to have that Jonathan call the cops on me."  That part was true, at least.  No reason to make the entire story one big lie.

"Well, Buffy's disappearing act didn't sit too well with Angel," Xander said.  "That's when he dragged me out to that Darla's place---."

"Darla?"  Willow was busy scribbling notes as he spoke.  "You mentioned her before.  Who is she?"

"Darla Hoyle.  She's the one who owns the joint.  Harmony---."

"And who's Harmony?"

"A chippy who works for Darla.  I spent the night trying to keep her hands off me, but at least she knows how to talk.  I got more information from her about Angel and this old girlfriend of his than if I'd been stuck with him all night."

His casual use of the term "girlfriend" snapped Spike's attention back to the room, his smile vanished.  "Wanker's _engaged_," he spat.  "What's he doin' with a girlfriend on the side?"

"Apparently, scratching the itch Buffy refused to," Xander replied.  "According to Harmony, the pair of them have been seeing each other for years.  He wanted to marry Darla, but the Mayor put his foot down.  Didn't want his son getting hitched to a hooker.  It goes to show that Angel's got a type, though.  She's a pretty little blonde thing, too."

Willow frowned as she heard the unmistakable growl rumble from Spike's throat.  "What's wrong?" she queried.  "It's not like it's not something we haven't heard a million times before.  _How_ many cheating husband cases have we handled?"

He whipped his head back around, staring blankly out the window at the teeming populace in the street below, before more of his fury became evident across his face.  It was one thing for her to be getting set to marry the prat; it was entirely a different matter to have him playing her for a fool.  "Deserves better, is all," he managed to say without betraying too much of the emotion in his voice.  "She doesn't seem the type to be mixed up with his sort."

"We'll have to do some more research then," Giles said.  "This Buffy, and Darla.  Perhaps they will give us more information on how to best get to the Mayor."  He turned to the man behind him.  "You haven't told us where you were all night yet, Spike."

"Thought it was obvious.  The dame pissed me off when she kicked me out.  I was out gettin' drunk.  Forgot all about our little tete-a-tete here.  End of story."  No reason to tell them about Clem, either.  Though his old friend was loyal to a fault, his connections to the Conti family were not to be ignored, and any hint from Spike that he'd contacted someone from the old days would not go over well.  Besides, that was personal.  It had nothing to do with the hit on the Mayor.  Well…almost nothing.

The older Englishman knew better than to press the issue.  "And you, Willow?" he asked, shifting his gaze to the redhead.  

"Paperwork.  Of the employment variety.  Wesley gave me the opportunity to do it last night instead of having to go in today.  We kind of…lost track of time."

Giles' eyes narrowed at the stain that was spreading over her cheeks at the mention of Wes' name.  "This…Wesley," he said.  "I assume he's---."

A knock at the door silenced him, and each of the quartet stiffened, looking to the others in confusion.  Even Spike turned away from the window, tossing his cigarette butt out onto the street, as Willow rose and took a hesitant step toward the door.

"Who can that be?" Xander asked, pulling himself up.  "Everybody we know is here in this room."  
"Maybe it's the front desk or something," she said.  "I'll just get rid of them."

The three men watched in tense curiosity as she disappeared down the narrow strip that led to the door.  Only Spike from his vantage point in the window could still see her as she approached the door, and he craned his neck to see who would be revealed on its other side when she pulled it open.

"Wesley!" she said in surprise, unconsciously straightening her shoulders.

His smile returned as Spike watched his friend pull at the bottom of the white blouse she was wearing, smoothing it over her hips even as the tall man in the entrance smiled down at her.  Lost track of time, eh, Red? he thought devilishly.  Methinks the lady doth understate this too much.

"Well, well, speak of the devil," he drawled out loud.     

The implication of the stranger at the door spurred Giles to action.  "Xander!" he hissed, gesturing toward the bathroom.  "The files!"

The flurry of the two men as they hastened to conceal their work brought a chuckle to Spike's lips, and it was that sound that caught Wesley's attention, lifting his gaze to meet that of the blond perched in the window.

"Oh," he said, his good will fading.  "My apologies.  I assumed…you would be…I didn't know."

"Don't mind us, mate," Spike said, rising to his feet and sauntering to stand behind Willow.  He ignored the look of fear she shot him over her shoulder.  "We're just havin' us a little visit with Red here."  He stuck out his hand in greeting.  "The name's Spike," he said.  "And you are…?"

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.  Willow's…employer."  His blue eyes slid over the now-visible forms of Giles and Xander hovering at the end of the small hall, his discomfort growing.  "I really should have called first, I can see.  I didn't mean to interrupt anything---."

"Did you need something?" Willow asked, regaining her voice for the first time since seeing him standing there.  She ignored the little flip-flops her stomach seemed to be doing and affected her brightest smile.  "Don't tell me there was a form I forgot to fill out."

"Uh, no.  Actually…"  His head ducked and his hand automatically rose to straighten his glasses.  "I thought…perhaps…considering you are new to the city, that I would…take you to lunch.  Only if you're free, of course," he rushed to add.  "I don't want to intrude if you have other arrangements."

"Oh."  Her bright gaze turned back to Spike, and there was no mistaking the thrill rippling across her easy-to-read face.  "Well, you see---," she started, but was cut off when he stepped forward.

"We were just leaving," Spike said.  "Just stopped by to make sure Red was settlin' in all right.  Can't have our favorite girl feelin' lonely her first day in the big apple, now can we?  And seein' as you're here to take care of that, we'll just be on our merry way."  His head jerked toward the others, his eyes inscrutable.  "Let's leave her to it," he said.  "I think we've played big brother here enough now."  

The slight emphasis on the words "big brother" didn't go unnoticed by Wesley and his features relaxed slightly at the admission.  "It was nice meeting you," he said as the three men trooped past him into the hall, completely oblivious to the fact that he hadn't even obtained the names of the other two who were leaving.

"See you later, guys!" Willow called after them.

When they were alone, Wesley turned his gaze back to her.  "I assume that…Spike is one of your English friends you were referring to last night," he said.

"Yeah.  And Giles is the other one.  He's the one with the glasses."   She smiled.  "Did you say something about lunch?"

*************

His stomach was rumbling, but Clem knew he didn't have time to stop and grab some more donuts before she started moving again.  This one was just too fast.  Never stopping.  Shopping like her life depended on it.  Going from one store to the next with more determination than a greyhound after a bunny.

Scribbling a quick note in his pad, Clem noted the name of the most recent shop as he caught her disappearing through the front door.  She had taste, though, he had to give her that.  Except why she'd bought that orange dress instead of the black one was beyond his understanding; any fool could've seen that it washed out her glorious skin.

Although he didn't have a clue as to what William wanted with this Buffy, he had to admit that as usual, his friend had excellent taste.  Beautiful.  Like Drusilla was except in a blonde, smiley way, instead of a dark, definitely psychotic way.  And smart.  That was one tongue he didn't want to get on the wrong end of.  He had caught her argument with one of the shopkeepers when they'd tried to lie to her about the price of a dress she'd picked out and had to refrain from laughing when her words sent everyone in the store scurrying like she was the Queen of England.  No wonder William liked her; she had a way about her that kept people on their toes.

And she was off again, leaving the store packageless for a change.

Clem sighed.

It was going to be a very long day.

*************

"What was that all about?" Xander asked when the three were out on the sidewalk.  "Why'd we have to go?"

"Because Red's feminine wiles work a lot better with a little less testosterone surrounding her," Spike said, digging out his cigarettes again.

"What does she have to be wily about?"

Giles shook his head at the younger man's naivete.  When it came to Willow, Xander definitely had a blind spot.  "Do you really think she'll be able to get anything from him?" he asked Spike.

Spike snorted.  "Didn't you see the puppy eyes the two were giving each other?  Ten bucks says there's more than a spot of interest there on both of their parts.  Hell yeah, she's goin' to get the information from him."  Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, he peered into the sky, noting its position almost directly overhead.  "Don't know about you two, but I think I'm goin' to head back to my place and take a shower.  Get myself scrubbed up before heading back to Heaven tonight."

Xander groaned.  "You're going to make me hang out with Angel again, aren't you?"

"Only if the Mayor decides not to show.  'Sides, I think I might want to meet the man myself this time."  His distaste had hardened into a cold lump in his gullet, his anger fuelled white-hot.  That was manageable, though.  That, he could deal with.  Knowing Buffy had refused her fiance's advances, in spite of her earlier protestations, gave him just enough fortitude to face the man without ripping his throat out.  He was going to get her out of this sham of an engagement, one way or another, and if it meant keeping his cool in the meantime, then that's what he'd do.  

Besides, he'd have Xander there to pull him off before he did anything really stupid.  Which, knowing himself like he did, was very likely to happen.

"I'll start seeing what I can find on this Darla Hoyle," Giles said.  "And while I'm at it, I'll see what comes up on the fiancée as well."

"No."

Spike's voice surprised all of them, and Giles frowned as he regarded the glower on the younger man's face.  "And why not?" he asked carefully.

"Already got her sorted," he replied.  "Leave that one to me."  And without another word, he spun on his heel and walked away.

*************

Doesn't this dame _ever_ eat? Clem thought irritably as he watched her stop before yet another hat shop.  A quick dash into a delicatessen had satisfied the worst of his tummy rumblings, but that had been almost an hour earlier.  The body required food, and damn if this broad wasn't determined he wasn't going to get any today.

Maybe she'll go home soon, he thought as he watched her glance at a car that screeched past.  You can't shop all day in shoes like that without needing to take a break sooner or later.  Then, I'll call William, tell him what I found out and ask if he really needs me to tail her all day.  Kind of hard to find anything interesting in someone who spends all her time shopping.

Clem frowned as he saw her glance again at the street before angling her body to step into an alley between a couple of shops.  Well, now, this is different, he thought.  What's she doing now?  He wasn't familiar with this part of the city; for all he knew, that alley led to another store, and if he went the next year without seeing another stuffy sales assistant try to hoist off an ugly evening gown on a pretty lady, he'd be a very happy camper.  For a moment, he debated about waiting for her to emerge on her own, then shook his head as his feet continued to carry him in her direction.  William asked him to do a job, and he wasn't about to do it half-assed.  Not even if his stomach was going to implode from hunger.

The alley was empty when he stepped into it, and Clem's frown deepened as he scanned over the scattered debris on the ground, the overflowing trash cans melding into the brick walls.  Where'd she go? he wondered as he edged forward, tucking his notebook into his pocket.  He'd only gone a few feet though, when he felt the slim muzzle of a gun press into his back.

"Are you packing?" a female voice said.

Inwardly, he groaned.  He'd only heard it from a distance, or through glass windows, but there was no mistaking who it was behind him.  Buffy Summers.  William was going to kill him.

When he didn't respond right away, Clem felt a small hand run expertly down his sides.  "Look, I don't do guns," he said.  "They're not my style."

"No, but you do notebooks," she replied, just as her search stopped at his coat pocket.  With a quick yank, she'd extracted it from its holder, giving him a quick shove at the same time.

He stumbled forward, turning and righting himself to see her begin flipping through its pages, the gun still trained neatly on him.  "They're nothing," he tried to dismiss.  "Just some scribblings."

"Scribblings about every place I've been to today," she muttered.  Her hazel gaze lifted to glare at him.  "Did Angel put you up to this?" she demanded.  "Is he that insecure that he's having me followed now?"

Clem held up his hands in denial, violently shaking his head.  "No, I don't even know---."  Then it dawned on him, the name she'd used registering.  "Angel Wilkins?" he squeaked.  "You're connected to Angel Wilkins?"

For the first time, she hesitated, a shadow of a frown darkening her face.  "He's my fiancé," she said slowly.

Any wider, and his eyes would've popped out of their sockets.  His jaw dropped to suit.  Holy shit, Clem thought.  What the fuck has William gotten himself into this time?

Her involvement with Angel was clearly not what he'd been expecting to hear, and Buffy's eyes narrowed as another possibility popped into her head.  "You're not from…California, are you?" she asked.

Another shake of his head.  "New Yorker, through and through.  Born and bred.  My mom---."

"Who do you work for?"

He'd known she was going to ask; it was inevitable.  It didn't mean he had to answer though.

After a minute of silence, she held up the notebook, gesturing with her gun to something scrawled across the top of the page.  "Who belongs to this phone number?"  Still no answer.  "You know, I can keep finding places to shoot you without you dying until you tell me," she threatened.

He knew she didn't mean it.  Not in broad daylight.  Not with hundreds of people walking past the entrance to the alleyway every minute.  It still didn't mean he was going to tell her.

Carefully, Buffy began backing up, eyes glancing around more and more as she neared the sidewalk.  "Guess you won't mind if I just give it a ring then," she said.

The look on his face was panicked, but he didn't move, not even when she turned to dart for the phone booth just at the curb.  Oh god William, he thought as he bolted for freedom.  Please don't be home.  And don't kill me for fucking this up.

She saw the guy run as she dropped the coin in the telephone, but by that point, Buffy didn't care.  He was harmless; she'd already decided that when she'd spotted him tailing her mid-morning.  He _was_ persistent, though, and if she'd had to go into one more hat shop, she was going to scream.

However, just because he wasn't dangerous, didn't mean whoever he was working for wasn't.  And she just hoped that this number scribbled next to his notes wasn't his dry cleaners.

She had almost decided to hang it up when the audible click of the other end of the line interrupted the fifth ring.  

There wasn't even a greeting.

"For fuck's sake, Ripper, give a bloke a chance to get in the soddin' door, why don't you?  And I thought I told you I wanted to take a bloody shower first."

There was no mistaking that chocolaty baritone or the accent, even as irritated as he was.  As she felt the air being sucked from her lungs, Buffy grabbed at the side of the booth, steadying herself as the surprise washed over her.  "Spike…?"

To be continued in Chapter 7: Catch As Catch Can…


	7. Catch As Catch Can

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Wesley has turned up at Willow's to take her out to lunch, while Buffy has caught Clem out in his tailing of her, calling the number in his notebook, and is surprised to hear Spike on the other end of the line…

*************

Her voice was the last he expected to hear, and Spike froze in mid-shrug, his jacket half on, half off, as the whisper of his name leapt the distance of the phone line, breathing into his ear as if she were pressed against him, instantaneous goosebumps erupting along his arms.  "Buffy?" he said, and waited for some type of response, an avowal, denial, something.

What came was silence.  Not the dial tone of a line disconnected.  Not a voice telling him he was imagining things.  Only the distant sound of traffic filtered through the wire, a far-off horn announcing for him that she was actually still there.

"Buffy?" Spike repeated.  "Pet, if that's you…are you OK?  Is something wrong?"  The question of how she'd gotten his number in the first place was quickly dismissed in light of his wonder about why she'd called him.  There would be time enough later to get the answer to that, he figured.

"I'm…fine."

It _was_ her, but she sure as hell didn't sound fine.  She sounded like she was in shock, and Spike's frown was immediate.  "You're not hurt, are you?  Listen, stay where you are.  I'll be---."

"Why are you having me followed?"

Her words were icy, stilling his body as the realization that Clem had been caught out answered his previous query.  The shock of it was quickly replaced by a vague sense of awe and respect, though, as the implication of it sank in.

He'd called Clem, not only because he trusted him to keep his mouth shut, but also because he was one of the best in the business.  When it came to getting information about people, following them around to detail their lives, nobody was faster or more reliable than Clem.  Spike's old friend had an affable manner about him that encouraged people to talk, and a way of staying invisible when the situation called for it.  To think that Buffy had found him out, in the first morning of his going on the job, told Spike one of two things.

Either being involved with Angel Wilkins had taught her how to spot Clem's sort, or she was a helluva lot more resourceful and intelligent than Spike had given her credit for.  Considering how smart he thought she was already, the latter as a possibility frankly scared the shit out of him.

And excited him, too.  No point in denying that.

"Is Clem there?  Did he give you my number?"

"Is that his name?"  She surprised him by giggling.  "I should've known.  Anyone with those ears _has_ to have a moniker like Clem."  There was a pause.  "And no, he's not here.  He lammed off once I got his little notebook."

Spike grinned, in spite of himself.  Whoever she was, she was good.  Clem _never_ lost that damn notebook.

"You haven't answered my question," she was saying.

"And which one was that?"  He knew which one.  He was stalling.  How did he want to handle this?

"Spike…"  It came out as more of a sigh, and his eyes drifted shut as he remembered the warm flutter of her breath along his neck, each rise and fall of her shoulders as she'd slept curled against his chest.  "Don't do this.  I told you last night.  Just…please.  For my sake…for your sake---."

"My sake wants you to stop lyin' to yourself, luv."  His tone was rougher than he wanted and he grimaced, running a hand through his hair.  Fuck.  That was going to piss her off even more.  Need to try a different tactic.  Can't let her just hang up.  "Listen, let me explain it to you in person.  Buy you lunch or something."

"That's not a good idea."

She hadn't immediately said no.  He latched on to the hope she offered and pressed onward, cradling the phone in his shoulder as he began pulling open drawers in his dresser.  "It's just a meal, Buffy.  It's not like you don't have to eat some time or another."  Grabbing a clean pair of socks, he began pulling at his shoes, kicking them off as he began sliding out of his jacket.  "You pick the joint.  Someplace public.  You won't have to worry about Big Bad Spike takin' advantage of your honor then."

"I shouldn't---."

"Please."  The entreaty surprised even him.  "I just want to talk.  We did that first before anything else, remember?"

_He_ certainly remembered.  Though the thought of her undeniably elicited memories of satin skin and honeyed lips, it also evoked the sound of her laughter, the flash of self-righteousness in grey-green eyes when she argued her point.  Beneath the gorgeous exterior was a mind and spirit that had called out to him, challenged him to stand up for himself, and there was no way he could ever forget that.

The silence was interminable.  Even as he was pulling off his shirt, scrounging through his closet for a clean one, Spike felt his impatience sharpen, his need for her to say something---anything---eating at his flesh.  Either hang up or answer me, he wanted to scream.  Just bloody choose _something_.

"There's a diner across the street from St. Christopher's," Buffy finally said.  Her voice was quiet.  "Nobody but the locals should recognize me down there.  If you're not there in half an hour, I'm leaving."

"I'll be there in twenty," Spike vowed, his heart singing at the opportunity she was giving him.  

*************

Her hand was shaking when she hung up the phone.  What the hell are you doing? Buffy chastised herself, staring blankly at the open page in front of her.  Meeting with Spike?  Are you crazy?

It's just lunch, she argued back.  And in public.  So no kissing or…other stuff.  Food.  Sustenance.  And talking.  Just talking.  Nothing wrong with that.

That's why you picked Mickey's place to meet him at, the devil on her shoulder whispered.  Because it's across the street from the hotel.  You know, just in case…

No, she vowed silently, and grabbed her things from the booth before pushing open the glass door.  We're just going to talk.  Spike needs to understand that he can't be doing things like having me followed.  If Angel had been with me today, things could've gotten ugly.  I don't want Spike to end up getting hurt.

As her heels clicked along the sidewalk, leading her to the spot in the alley where she'd tucked her purchases before confronting Clem, Buffy almost found herself believing her unspoken reasoning.  It was for his safety she was doing this.  He had to know that being involved with her wasn't safe, and if that meant having lunch, then so be it.

Still, the small niggle of delight at seeing Spike again tickled in the depths of her stomach, and there was the faintest of smiles curling her lips as she stepped to the curb to hail a taxi.  

*************

It felt like every eye in the restaurant was on her as Willow slid into the chair Wesley had pulled out for her, shooting him a nervous smile when he sat down opposite.  Unconsciously, she straightened her blouse over her skirt, throwing her shoulders back as her gaze kept darting over the elegance of the other occupants, the dark wood of the long bar that dominated the room, the plethora of models and ornaments that dangled from the ceiling.

"Is something wrong?" Wesley asked.  "You seem uncomfortable."

Willow leaned forward, keeping her voice as low as possible.  "You brought me to the '21 Club,'" she said.

"Well, yes."  He smiled, picking up the menu in front of him as if nothing else was wrong.  "The food here is really quite exquisite---."

"You brought me to the '_21 Club_,'" she repeated, her words a little clearer, her tone a little more nervous.

He looked at her over his menu, a frown beginning to overtake his earlier smile.  "And is there something wrong with that?"

"Don't you think I'm a little…"  She gestured toward her simple clothing.  "…underdressed for this sort of place?"  Underdressed was an understatement for how she was feeling at the moment.  When he'd suggested lunch, she'd imagined a quiet little café, or maybe a deli.  Never in her wildest dreams did she consider that he'd bring her to one of the most upscale restaurants on the entire island.  More money walked in and out of its doors than she could even imagine, and the fact that she could spot at least three high-profile personalities without even having to turn her head did nothing to boost her already faltering ego.

He seemed confused for a moment, carefully studying the neat lines of her blouse before glancing at the other patrons.  "You're not honestly concerned about your apparel, are you?" Wesley asked.  "Because you look absolutely lovely.  I suppose I should've said something to you earlier, but I'll admit I was little flummoxed by seeing you had…guests when I arrived."

"Oh, they're just friends, like I said---."  She cut herself off, the compliment he had just paid her finally sinking in.  Blushing, she hastily picked up the menu before her, and covered her face with it.  "So what's good to eat here?" she chirped.

She didn't see his amused smile.  "You really can't go wrong in anything you select," he said.  "Just choose whatever catches your eye."

Willow bit at her lip as her gaze scanned the choices.  He'd called her lovely.  So, OK, it wasn't the first time anyone had ever said she was pretty, but usually those kind of compliments only came from Spike or Giles when she was feeling particularly low.  Guys just didn't usually see her in that sort of light, not even Xander when she'd practically been throwing herself at him before he met Anya.  She'd always chalked it up to the intelligence thing; most men were intimidated by smart women.  It was a theory that she'd shared with Spike, but he'd just rolled his eyes and snorted in disgust.

"Smart dames are the only way to go," he'd said.  "Eye candy's all well and good for the occasional spot of fun, but when it comes to the long haul, a bloke needs someone who'll keep him on his toes."  He'd given her a quick kiss on the forehead then, staring down at her with an intensity that still managed to shake her when she remembered it.  "It'll happen, Red.  Trust me on this.  'Cause the prat that's too blind to see what a skirt like you has to offer isn't worth the time you'd spend fussin' about him."  His smile had been cocky.  "And if somebody argues any different with you, just be sure to send him my way.  It'll be my pleasure to knock some sense into him."

All too quickly, the waiter had come and taken their orders, leaving her bereft of a menu to hide behind, and Willow was left facing Wesley, a nervous smile plastered across her face.  "So…" she started, her mind searching desperately for something to talk about that wouldn't leave her sounding like a fool.

"So…" Wesley echoed.

"This place used to be a speakeasy, right?"  Oh, that's good, she thought excitedly.  Local history.  Colorful yet impersonal.  And facts.  I can talk about facts.  Maybe that will help me warm up to the more delicate issue of questions about his boss.

"Yes, though its owners were never actually caught at the time of Prohibition.  They proved just a bit too wily for federal agents."

"I heard that their famous wine cellar wasn't even in this building," Willow rushed to say.  "That it was next door.  At number nineteen."

He nodded.  "Yet another reason why they were able to escape justice for their crimes," he commented.  He gazed at her in speculation.  "You seem awfully well-versed in that type of lore," he said.  "Outside of its patrons and the law, the details of the cellar are known only by a select few."

"You're forgetting the incredibly curious," she replied.  "The facts are all there.  You just have to go looking for them."

"And is that a hobby of yours?  This…fact-finding?"

Too late, she realized what she'd done, and Willow ducked her gaze, brushing imaginary dust from the tablecloth.  Crap, she thought.  This isn't supposed to be about me.  This is supposed to be about him.  Good thing Giles isn't here to tell me how badly I'm doing at this.

Out loud, she said, "I like to read.  It helps…pass the time."

He smiled.  "And what else do you do to pass the time?  Because I find it very hard to believe that someone as intelligent as you has a lifetime ambition of being a coat check girl."

This was better.  "I'm a student," she said, venturing forth with the cover story they'd concocted for her.  "Or I will be.  Once the winter term comes around.  That's why working at Heaven is just what I need.  Days free for classes and all that."  She took a sip of her water, wetting her mouth that had suddenly gone dry.  "What about you?  I wouldn't have pegged you for running a club.  How'd something like that happen?"

"Running Heaven is actually much more demanding than you might think.  There's all the paperwork---well, you've seen that---as well as a host of other responsibilities.  It's quite challenging, really."

"And you don't have to worry about getting deported or anything?  I know Giles still has nightmares about some of his immigration issues."

"I actually have dual citizenship," Wesley explained.  "I was born here, but raised in England.  Makes life much simpler in the long run."  He paused, blue eyes meeting hers in contemplation.  "This…Giles.  He's just a…friend, right?"

She nodded.  "Friend, mentor, that kind of thing.  He and Spike are pretty much my family these days.  Them and Xander.  He's the non-Brit in the mix.  I mean, you saw the way they acted.  They can get a little…protective of me."

"And that…doesn't bother you?"

"Oh, no.  Well, sometimes, but most of the time, no.  I think it's sweet, but that could just be my soft spot for Englishmen showing through."

He had just swallowed a sip of water as she spoke and found himself choking at her implication.  Willow blushed as she watched him hurriedly cover his mouth with his napkin, her eyes widening as she realized what she'd said.  No wonder I don't have a boyfriend, she thought as her embarrassment caused her stomach to clench in knots.  There's no room in my life for anything but my oversized mouth.

"My…apologies," he managed, his voice muffled by his napkin.  "Must've…gone down…"  He cleared his throat.  "…the wrong way."

Her eyes were downcast, her fingers twisting in her lap.  "I should probably go," she said quietly with a small shake of her head.  "I think I'm out of feet."

"…Pardon?"

She couldn't even look up to see the dismay at her suggestion darkening his gaze.  "Feet," she repeated.  "I stuck one in my mouth last night, then used my other to start over with you, and now I've managed to use up a third one by landing it straight in the middle of my mouth again when I didn't even know I had a third one.  So, I should probably let you have lunch in peace.  Free of me and my ever-increasing feet."

His chuckle was the last thing she expected to hear, and Willow's head shot up to see him smiling at her.  "You really are the most…delightful person I've met in a very long time," Wesley said.  "Please, don't go.  I'm afraid I'm just as nervous as you are, and if you were to leave, well, my confidence would be shot entirely."

"You're…why are you…huh?"  Completing a sentence seemed impossible at the moment.  All she could do was stare at him and wonder why he wasn't firing her on the spot.

"I have a small confession to make," he said, leaning slightly forward.  "I was rather hoping that we could use this lunch to…get to know each other better.  Work won't be conducive to that, I fear, and, frankly, it seems foolish of me not to…"  His words trailed off as something over her shoulder caught his eye, and Willow saw a shutter immediately come over his gaze, his jaw hardening.  "Damn," he muttered.

"What is it?" she asked, twisting in her chair.

She saw right away what had captured his attention.  In the doorway, Angel stood with a smaller man she didn't recognize, looking over the crowd.  When his eyes fell on their table, a curious smile lifted the corner of his mouth and she heard Wesley's chair scrape against the floor as he rose to his feet.

"I'll be right back," he said.

*************

His dark gaze jumped from Wesley's approaching form to the cute redhead who was seated at his table, making it impossible for Angel not to smile when the Englishman stopped in front of him.  "Is that the new coat check girl?" he asked of his employee.  "I saw her last night at Heaven, but damn, I didn't see those gams.  Nice work, Wes."

"Her name's Willow, and you're engaged, remember?"

He sneaked another peek at the young girl's legs and whistled under his breath.  "Being engaged doesn't make me blind," Angel said.

"No, it makes you unavailable."

Rolling his eyes, Angel shook his head, reaching up to straighten the other man's lapels.  "Wes, Wes, Wes.  Just because I'm getting hitched doesn't mean I have to put the nix on other dames.  But for you, I'll leave this one alone.  Just make sure to let me know if she's a natural redhead, all right?"  At his side, his companion chuckled, widening Angel's leer, but he quickly dropped it in the face of Wesley's stony silence.  "Kind of glad I ran into you, though," he said, suddenly all business.  "There's a job I need for you to do.  Someone I need some information on."

"Oh?  Who?"

"Guy by the name of Xander Harris.  I met him at Heaven last night.  He seems jake but I've just gotta be sure, you know?"

"Oh, of course…"  Wesley frowned.  "What did you say his name was again?"

*************

His face was pensive when he slid back into his seat, and Willow's smile was hesitant.  "Is everything all right?" she asked.  "There's not some Heaven emergency, is there?"

"Oh, no," Wesley replied.  "Just some…business Angel would like me to look into."  Replacing his napkin in his lap, his gaze was measured as he looked across the table at her.  "I was thinking.  Perhaps you should invite your friends to the club.  Let them see what exactly you've gotten yourself into there.  It might dispel some of their worries if they were to see the atmosphere you'll be working in."

"Oh, they've already been.  Well, Spike and Xander have.  Last night."

For some reason, he didn't seem pleased with her answer, but she was left to wonder on it in silence as the waiter approached with their food.  It was only after they were left alone again that she found herself able to speak up.  "About what you were saying earlier," she said.  "The…getting to know each other part of the conversation.  Was that a work-related statement or a…something else-related statement?  Because for the life of me, I can't figure it out."

Absently, Wesley pushed his food around on his plate with his fork, assessing his next words before replying.  "Let's just say," he finally said, "that for the purposes of this lunch, neither one of us work for Angel Wilkins or his father.  That…we're just two people, who happened to meet up completely by accident, and discovered they just might have something in common.  Of course, _this_ person finds the _other_ person remarkably lovely, and charming, and thus hopes that it doesn't stop with a mere lunch, but then again, that would be completely up to the other person's discretion."

It was the second time he'd called her lovely, and she felt her skin warm at the appreciative stare he was giving her over the top of his glasses as he waited to gauge her response.  "I think the other person could allow her discretion to be persuaded," Willow said with a small smile.

There was no mistaking his pleased grin.  "So, you like to read," he said, attacking his food with a renewed fervor.  "Would it be presumptuous to think you might have read Sholem Asch's _The Nazarene_?"

She brightened immediately.  "Oh my God!" she exclaimed.  "I _love_ that book!  Of course, my father called me as soon as it was published and told me not to read it, which only made me go out right then to see what the hullabaloo was about."  She shook her head.  "Sometimes, it scares me how ignorant people can be sometimes.  If they'd only read the book, they'd know that it wasn't trying to encourage anti-Semitism at all…"

He watched her as she prattled on, amused at the vivacity of her arguments, occasionally offering his own insights when she'd pause for a moment to breathe.  Part of him wanted to believe that it was merely a coincidence, that the fact that Angel had spent the evening with Willow's friend was a strange twist of fate.  It would make everything so much simpler, he thought.  But, as she drew him further and further into the discussion, Wesley couldn't fight the feeling that there was more to her than met the eye.  The student story was a good one, but he was convinced it was just that---a story.  And her friends…

His quick look at Xander and Giles hadn't told him much, but he'd seen and heard enough from that Spike to know a tough cookie when he saw it.  Maybe he _was_ just a friend, but that kind of friend didn't leave him in a warm place regarding Willow.  He needed to find out more about what exactly she was doing, what her interest in working at Heaven really was.

Of course, it would be much simpler all around if he didn't find her so damn attractive…

*************

He was barely through the front door of the office building when Holland caught up with him.

"You're running a little late this morning, aren't you, Lindsey?" his boss said with a jovial smile.

His answering smile was polite, even though the itch at being waited for like a child crawled along his skin.  "I was on the phone quite late with one of our clients," he said.  "I'm sorry, sir.  It won't happen again."

"Ah, yes."  Holland nodded as if they shared a secret.  "He called me, too, actually.  It seems he and his partner are a little worried about the assignment they've given us."

"I assured him---."

Holland held up his hand to cut him off.  "I'm sure you did," he said.  "But, be that as it may, the Senior Partners and I believe that it might be best for everyone involved if you were to go and supervise this particular case in person."  He reached into his jacket pocket, and extracted a small envelope.  "Your arrangements have already been made.  I'm sure you'll find them satisfactory."

Lindsey frowned.  "You want me to go to New York?" he asked, and then realized that it was a foolish question.  "My caseload---."

"---has already been taken care of," Holland finished.  "I've redistributed your files between Lee and Gavin.  They will handle things while you're away."

There was no point in arguing, and he knew it.  The frustration he'd felt in the night returned, churning inside like a hornet's nest beset by fire, but he stifled any urge to let that show in his face.  "Of course," he said, eyes calm.  

Inwardly, he raged, his gaze steady as he watched the older man walk away.  Final straw, he kept thinking.  I'm getting this done, and then this camel is getting out of this place.

Before it breaks more than my back…

To be continued in Chapter 8: Two Beautiful Cracksmen…


	8. Two Beautiful Cracksmen

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy has called Spike and agreed to meet with him for lunch, in an attempt to convince him to leave her alone…

*************

He was beginning to feel like a fool, sitting at the table in the corner, his back to the wall as his eyes remained glued on the door of the diner.  An ashtray with a clutch of stubbed-out cigarette butts sat on the table before Spike, the smoke from his current wafting over his bleached head in a cloud nowhere near as dark as his mood.  So much for being early, he thought bitterly.  No point in bein' on time if the bitch never had any intention in showin' her face in the first place.

He'd changed his clothes in record time, bolting from his hotel and making it to the diner in seventeen minutes flat.  The next thirteen had been spent pacing up and down the walk in front of the restaurant, blue eyes peeled to the road, every new sound in the street garnering his attention.  Each possibility sent the adrenaline coursing through his veins, straightened his shoulders as a glint of expectation shone in the sapphire, only to be visibly dashed when it would turn out to be nothing.  At precisely half an hour, he'd gone inside and snagged the corner table, nobody behind him and full view of the door for when she showed, and lit up his first cigarette.

That had been twenty minutes ago.

Just used it as a way to get me off the phone, Spike thought as he stabbed out his cigarette, ash scattering haphazardly across the formica tabletop from the force.  Took me for a sap and said the words she knew I wanted to hear.  And the thing of it is, I can't even get Clem back in on the job because she's fingered him already.  What a bloody waste of a day this has been.

It wasn't the anger at her that was the strongest, though.  What ate at Spike was the sense of utter disappointment that he could've been so wrong.  About her, about them.  It just wasn't possible.  This was one of the things he'd always been good at.  It was just a matter of keeping an eye on the people, watch them for their tricks.  It was next to impossible to pull the wool over his eyes.  And yet she'd done it.  Conned him with her sharp words, blinded him with that smile, drowned him in hazel every time he looked into her eyes.  Taken his heart, tossed it around for a bit, and then stomped it under her heel until all he was left with was mash.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight.  If he didn't know better, he'd swear he was in love with the bloody chit, but that wasn't possible, not after two and a half days.  Serious liking, maybe, but love was an entirely separate matter.  It didn't make a whit of difference how amazing they were together, or how many times her face rose before him, even when she wasn't in the room.  His ability to love had been tossed into the freezer five years ago when he'd found Dru with that wanker, and it was going to take more than a pretty face and a nice set of legs to thaw it out that quickly.

He just had to keep repeating that to himself so that he'd eventually believe it.

A quick glance at his watch told Spike that it was now twenty-five minutes past the deadline Buffy had imposed.  He was going to have to order something other than a cup of java if he didn't want the guy behind the counter tossing him out on his ear for wasting a table during his busy lunch crowd.  Part of him almost hoped the git would try; in his current state of mind, he could use a bit of the rough and tumble to clear his head.  The hell he'd get from Red and Ripper would most definitely be worth it.

He was just reaching into his pocket for his wallet when the bell rang over the door.  Automatically, he looked up, expecting it to be another nameless customer wandering in for their midday meal, but when he recognized her slim form, Spike's heart leapt into his throat.

As Buffy stopped inside the entry, her cheeks were flushed, her chest slightly heaving, her bags swinging slightly at her sides as if she'd just dashed across the road.  In her dusky lavender fitted suit, she looked like she better belonged at the Savoy than in the dingy diner, but the quick smile she shot the guy behind the counter told Spike she was known here.  She didn't see the blond in the corner, though, and as her gaze flickered over the patrons, he couldn't help but note the momentary panic shading the hazel.

She's looking for me, he thought in wonder.  And she's fussed because she thinks I'm not here.  The slow smile that spread across his face erased his fears about the last half hour, and when he caught her eye, the flash of relief that softened the set of her shoulders was almost enough to make him stand up and cross the room to take her into his arms.  Take it slow, he reminded himself as she hurried over to the table.  Don't do anything to scare her away.

"I didn't think you'd be here," Buffy breathed as she slid onto the seat opposite him.  She tucked her purchases beneath the table, leaving her handbag resting beside her.  "My cab got caught in a jam.  I was about to get out and hoof it over here on my own."  Her eyes met his, and she felt her stomach melt from the warm appraisal the blue was sweeping over her face.  "Have you been waiting long?" she managed to add.

"Long enough to begin thinkin' I'd been stood up."

The confusion that darkened her gaze brought an unexpected delight to his grin.  "But why would I do that?" she said.  "I'm the one who told you where to come."

Spike shrugged.  "You could've been sayin' that just to get rid of me."

Obviously, the possibility had never occurred to her, and she fell silent as the man from behind the counter stepped over to their table.  "Lookin' for the usual, Buffy?" he asked her as he pulled out his pad.

She nodded, distractedly.  "Have you ordered yet?" she asked Spike.

"No.  I'll take a burger, rare.  And another cup of coffee."  He waited until they were alone again before speaking.  "You have a usual?  Didn't suss this as your kind of joint."

"I like this part of town," she said.  "Nobody knows what my other life is like down here.  They just take you at face value and leave you alone about anything you don't want to share."  The corner of her mouth lifted.  "But you know that already."

It was just like when she'd first walked into Willy's.  The indescribable sense that she could see straight through him, knew corners of his soul that he'd left undusted and unexamined for decades.  "Why do you do it, pet?" he asked softly.  "If you hate it so much, why stick around there?"

There was a flicker of something---pain, maybe?---behind her eyes, and then the mask came back up and her smile was gone.  "I don't hate my life, Spike," she said.  Her voice was cool.  "I told you that before."

"'Cept you keep tryin' to run away from it."

"You don't know anything about that."

He shook his head.  "Nah, of course I don't.  Only thing I know is that this amazing woman almost cried when I told her how beautiful she was.  Like it was something she couldn't dare believe in.  Is that the kind of life Angel Wilkins is promising you?"

"Angel's not who you think he is.  You have no idea what he's done for me, Spike.  What kind of man he is---."

"I know he's a dangerous son of a bitch so busy shucking as many oysters as he can get his hands on, he doesn't even see the pearl he's already got."  His eyes gleamed as his hand shot out to encircle her wrist, pulling her forward.  Without even realizing he was doing it, his thumb began tracing delicate circles across her pulse point as he forced her to meet his gaze.  "Why'd you agree to have lunch with me, luv?" he asked, his voice so low nobody but she could hear it.

"Don't call me that," she whispered.  She wanted to look away.  She really did.  But something about the storm brewing behind the blue captivated her, locking her in a trance even as she tried to deny the flutters the stroke of his thumb was creating in her stomach.

"You're not answering my question."

"I wanted…"  She couldn't finish it.  The lie refused to come to her lips.

"What?  You wanted…what?  To see me again?"

The shake of her head was vehement.  "No."

"You're lyin'."

"I've never lied to you, Spike."

His scarred eyebrow shot up.  "Really?  Funny, I thought that whole Anne business was---."

"I've never lied about anything _important_."

"So answer the question again, pet.  And this time, do it right."  His touch never stopped; his gaze never wavered.  "Did you want to see me again?"

She took a long time in replying, lost in the hypnotic swirl of those eyes.  "…Yes."

The single word acted as a release, Spike's fingers uncurling from her wrist as he leaned back into his seat.  He knew it was only a small victory, but it was a victory nonetheless, and he wasn't about to spoil it by pushing the issue further.  Reaching for his cigarettes, his lips quirked into a relaxed smile.  "So what made you pick this joint?  Got a thing for dives with sludge for coffee?"

Buffy glanced at the man behind the counter.  "Mickey's a friend.  I knew it'd be safe here."

"And the fact that it's across the road from the hotel…?"

"Coincidence."

He smirked.  "I would've called it convenient."

"I'm not sleeping with you again, Spike.  I told you last night it was a mistake."

He took a moment to light his cigarette, taking a deep drag and exhaling before speaking again.  "So let's talk instead.  Tell me where you're from."

"I have an apartment in the Village."

"I didn't ask where you lived.  I asked where you're from."  He smiled, though, using his cigarette to point at her.  "But keep a hold of that thought.  You in the Village?  Something tells me that's a might busy bee buzzin' in the fiance's bonnet."

She couldn't help but join in his mirth.  "Angel _hates_ that I live there," Buffy said.  "He thinks I'm going to be corrupted or something by all the free spirits down there.  They don't respect 'family values,' he says."  She rolled her eyes at the last.

Spike snorted.  "Bloody pillock's one to talk," he muttered, remembering Xander's report regarding the previous night.  "So…before the Village, pet.  Where was home sweet home before that?"

She paused as Mickey approached with two steaming cups of coffee, turning hers absently in its saucer even after he'd walked away.  "California," she finally said.  "A little place called Sunnydale.  But I haven't been there in three years.  This is my home now."

Her face had softened at the mention of the state, hazel fixed on the black fluid rippling in her cup as if it could conjure the pictures of the past and project them for only her to see.  "You miss it," Spike said gently, and reached out to run a single finger over the back of her hand in comfort.

"No---."

"Buffy---."

She looked up at the mention of her name.  "All right, yes," she replied.  It was impossible to lie when he looked at her like that.  "But it doesn't matter if I do or not.  There's nothing there for me anymore."

It was obvious she didn't want to talk about it.  With each word, her face had folded in on itself, the mask she fought so hard to erect failing to cover the pain behind her eyes, the ache in her voice.  He wanted to press, to find out what had caused her such grief, but suspected that now was not the best time for that.  Spike had a feeling she'd hated telling him as much as she had; like the other, he was going to have to settle for every small victory where he could get it.

"Is that where you started singing?" he said instead.  "I didn't really get a chance to tell you last night what a great show you put on.  You had the entire joint eatin' out of the palm of your hand before the lights even came up."

Buffy blushed at the compliment.  "Thanks," she said.  "And yeah.  I just did local gigs at first, but then when Angel saw my act, he convinced me I needed to try bigger and better places, got me into LA.  Then when…"  Her eyes dropped again, the slightest of trembles in her fingers as she picked up her coffee and took a sip.  "I came out to New York not long after that," she finished, ignoring her previous train of thought.  "The rest is pretty much history."

It hadn't occurred to him that she could've met Angel anywhere but the Big Apple, and Spike frowned as the numbers ticked over in his brain.  Three years plus some more time before that meant she had to have been just a kid when the prat first met her, no more than eighteen or nineteen.  Young.  Impressionable.  His hatred for the other man was growing by leaps and bounds with every syllable spilling from her lips.

"You've…been with him all this time then?" he quizzed.  He didn't really want to hear the answer to it, but he had to know.  He had to know what he was fighting here.

"We weren't together when I moved out here," Buffy said, shaking her head.  "He wanted us to be, but…I felt funny about it.  Especially after I started at Heaven.  It always made me feel like everyone was looking at me and thinking the only reason I had the job was because I was Angel's girlfriend or something.  I hate that."

Spike snorted.  "Anybody tells you that you don't belong on that stage, you go tell them to climb up their thumb.  They don't know what the bloody hell they're talkin' about."  He grinned.  "Better yet.  Send 'em my way.  It'd be my pleasure to knock some sense into them."

She laughed.  "I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she teased.

"Actually, I tell that to anyone who I give two figs for," he admitted, and was glad when her eyes widened in slight surprise.  "Probably not the smartest of things, but I've always been the sort to think best with my hands."

"Why does that not surprise me…" Buffy murmured, her gaze settling on the long fingers wrapped around his coffee cup.  Shivers ran across her skin as she remembered how they'd felt wrapped around her back, digging into her hips, brushing across her nipples, and had to tear her eyes away before the stain in her cheeks became too apparent.  They settled instead on her purse at her side, and her mind jumped at the opportunity to change the subject.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, digging into her bag.  "I was going to give this back to you so that you could give it to Clem."  She extracted the notebook she'd snatched earlier and slid it across the table.

He didn't bother picking it up, just lifted its cover and noted the blank pages inside.  "Lemme guess," he said.  "You tore out his notes."

"They were boring anyway," she defended.  "Do you have any idea how many shops I forced myself to go into, hoping he'd get bored and leave me alone?  Even this girl doesn't need that many hats."

Spike's gaze was contemplative.  "My number's in those notes."

She wasn't touching that one with a ten-foot pole, she decided.  She knew it, he knew it, and she wasn't ready to hand that piece of information back to him just yet.  Instead, Buffy said, "You really shouldn't have done it, you know.  If Angel had been with me, things could've gotten ugly."

"Don't see how," he countered.  "If the fiance had been with you, you would've been too wrapped up in havin' your honey around to notice Clem in the first place."

"I would've still fingered him."

"What?  The git's not interesting enough to keep you distracted for a few hours?  Why does that not surprise me?"

"Why don't you ever say his name?"

"Maybe 'cause it's a nancyboy name.  And you're changing the subject again."

"Why'd you do it, Spike?  Following me doesn't solve anything."

His head tilted as he leveled those blue eyes at her, his lashes dark.  "Told you last night it wasn't over, luv," he said, and the dark promise behind his words sent a thrill beneath her skin.  "I was just gettin' information---.  
"You could've just asked me."

"Like you would've answered?"  Every sweep of his gaze over her body evoked a response she was growing increasingly familiar with, the sense that her flesh knew his, _needed_ his in order to be complete.  "You're tellin' me that if I'd stayed there last night, you would've told me your favorite flower, your favorite food, what keeps you awake at night, why the taste of your skin makes my mouth water for m---."

"Stop."  Her voice was hoarse, her breathing ragged.  Any more, and she'd be begging him to take her across the street, all her resolutions about keeping him at arm's length chucked out the window.  

His hand was back across the table then, those fingers tracing the whorls in her knuckles, almost not even touching his touch was so light.  "Give me one good reason why," Spike said.

"Because you'll get hurt."  

Her eyes were pleading with him to believe her, and for a moment, he faltered in his resolve.  She honestly thought that, he realized.  "I've been around the block a few times, pet," he said.  "I can take care of myself."

"You don't understand."  This was it.  This was her chance to get him to see.  Buffy leaned forward, earnestness and ache written across her face.  "Being around me isn't safe, Spike.  You want me to tell you what meeting you has done to my life?  Fine.  You've turned it upside-down, you dumb mug.  I got in a fight with my fiancé because he wanted some attention and I knew I couldn't honestly give it to him because I still had the smell of _you_ stuck in my head.  I was up half the night because every time I closed my eyes, _you _were there.  When I heard your voice on the other end of that phone line, I _knew _I should've hung up, but I couldn't.  I wanted to see you again, even if it was just for a few minutes.  And not one of these things makes me happy, Spike.  Because if I let you in, if I give whatever this is between us a chance, you're going to get hurt and I don't want to be responsible for that.  I don't want to be the one who couldn't protect you---."

She'd had him, hooked and quivering like a fish gasping for air, as soon as she'd admitted to thinking of him.  It was her use of the word "protect," though, that made him snort, eyes narrowed as he shook his head.  "I've met his sort before, Buffy.  He's all bluster and swag while he hides behind his father's power.  I can more than hold my own against _that_.  You don't need to try and save me---."

Her mouth was tight.  "I never said it was Angel you needed protecting from."

Her response startled him, and his brows knitted together in query.  As his mouth opened to press the issue, however, the bell over the door jangled again, and as before, his gaze flickered to see who the new arrival was.  It was an autonomic thing with him, he knew this, and he was about to dismiss the stocky man as just another customer when he caught the unmistakable bulge of a gun just under his jacket.

Spike stiffened.  Behind the counter, Mickey had his back to the front door, a cloth in his hands as he cleaned out the coffee pot.  None of the other patrons seemed to notice anything amiss, but when the new arrival's hand disappeared inside his coat, Spike's reaction was instantaneous.

He was halfway across the diner before he got his gun out, and he'd grabbed the man by the neck and slammed him facedown onto the counter by the time he had the Smith & Wesson pressed into the back of the guy's head.

Amidst screams and a screech of chairs, the customers around him scattered, leaving Spike alone with his captive, a gaping Mickey staring across at both of them.  "That's Bobby the Bear," he said in amazement.  "You just stopped Bobby the Bear."

The name meant nothing to him, but he didn't let that show on his face.  "There a reason you've got a trigger man tryin' to bump you off?" he asked, releasing his grip on the man's neck to pull back the coat, revealing the gun strapped to his side.  

"Guess I'm a little late with this month's payment," Mickey replied, face pale.  "I didn't think---."

Spike shook his head.  "Not thinking's goin' to get you killed," he said, and was about to pull the gun from the man's holster when he felt the hard muzzle of another revolver pressed against his spine.

"Let him go," a deep voice said.

Inwardly, Spike groaned.  Been outta the game too long, he thought.  Should've known there'd be another one.  A quick glance at Mickey confirmed for him that there was another shooter standing behind him.  He didn't move, though, but let his hand hover in its current position, pushing his gun just a little bit harder into Bobby's skull.  "You don't know who you're dealin' with here, mate," he said casually.  "So I suggest you put away your little pea-shooter and take a powder before you and your buddy both end up dead."

The man behind him laughed.  "The way I see it, it's two guns to one here.  You're the one who's lookin' to get dead."

The gunshot shattered the dead calm of the room, almost immediately accompanied with more screams and breaking glass.  As he felt the steel fall from where it had been placed along his back, Spike's head jerked sideways to see Buffy standing resolutely by their table, a silver pistol held expertly in her hands, its muzzle trained on the space behind him.  Briefly, her eyes met his before he took the opportunity to glance over his shoulder.  

There, on the tiled floor of the diner, the second shooter lay unconscious, a pool of blood already seeping from the wound in his right shoulder.

Roughly, Spike yanked Bobby up, taking the other man's gun at the same time before shoving him toward his friend in the doorway.  "I suggest you get him out of here," he said.  "Before my lady decides to take a crack at you, too."

It didn't take more than a few seconds for the would-be assassin to make up his mind, scooping his arms beneath the other's shoulders to drag him out into the street.  Within a minute, both were gone.

"Show's over, people," Mickey announced with a smile, trying to bring the restaurant back to order.  "And lunches are all on the house today."  He nodded at Spike.  "Thanks."

The blond shrugged in dismissal, his attention reverting back to where Buffy was putting her gun back into her handbag.  He reholstered his own weapon as he strode over to her, stopping at her side to look at her in amazement.

"You pack," he said unnecessarily.

Buffy smiled.  "So do you.  You're not a cop, are you?"

He couldn't help chuckling.  "Not bloody likely," he said.  "What about you?  That was a good shot, but I'm not sure ol' Mickey's goin' to appreciate the bill for that window the wanker broke."

There was no mistaking the twinkle in her eye.  "Who do you think taught me to shoot?" she commented.

Spike glanced back at the man behind the counter in curiosity, but by the time he'd turned back, Buffy was already picking up her bags.  He immediately frowned.  "Where are you goin'?" he asked.  "We haven't eaten yet."

"I think I've lost my appetite.  I'm just going to go home, get some rest before tonight's show.  I think I've had enough excitement for one day."

"Don't run like this, luv.  Not now.  There's so much---."

She startled him into silence by pressing her lips to his, the gentlest of kisses that still managed to stoke the fire that was already raging beneath his skin.  Before he could respond, however, it was over, her mouth already sliding across his cheek to linger at his ear.

"Daisies," she whispered, her breath warm against him.  "I like daisies."

Spike was frozen as she quickly walked away, sidestepping the blood that Mickey was cleaning up by the door.  When she reached the entrance, Buffy hesitated, looking back to see the blond watching her in intense scrutiny.  "My first set starts at eight," she said, as if she needed to offer no other explanation for her hasty exit.  

And with that, she was gone.

*************

She wasn't convinced she'd been exactly smart about the whole thing, but Buffy knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Spike would show up at the club again that night.  She'd practically given him an engraved invitation; there was no way he was going to pass it up.

As she watched the people pass by on the sidewalk, she leaned back into the seat of the cab, reliving every second from when she'd walked in to the diner.  His reaction to spotting Bobby the Bear had taken her completely by surprise, and she'd sat there and watched agape as he showed her yet another side of his persona.  Lightning fast, with a feral grace that could only come from years of exposure to such movements, all steel and ice as he'd disabled Bobby faster than she'd even seen any of Angel's men do.  This was the man she was so worried about getting hurt?  This man could walk a line of upturned razor blades and come away unscathed, she was sure.

That realization was what had opened her mind to the possibility that maybe she could have it both ways.  Maybe she could use her engagement to Angel to get what she needed and still have Spike waiting for her on the other side of it all.  Maybe he would even agree to help; his type of aid could certainly come in handy when the time came.

Of course, that would mean telling him the whole story, and it was only this thought that darkened Buffy's mood.  Maybe Spike wouldn't feel the same way about her if he knew the truth about her past.  Maybe he'd decide she wasn't good enough for him after all and kick her to the curb.

No, better to just keep her mouth shut about it for now.  He'd be safe in case anything went wrong with her plans, and then once it was all over, maybe they might be able to build something from the rubble that was going to be her life.

Too many maybes.

To be continued in Chapter 9: Dance, Fools, Dance…


	9. Dance, Fools, Dance

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.  Buffy's song is "And the Angels Sing," by Benny Goodman.  
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy and Spike's lunch was cut short when they stopped a shooting at the diner, leaving both of them a little more curious, a little more trusting of the other's capabilities…

*************

He was humming under his breath, his thumbs tapping out some unknown rhythm against the steering wheel as they waited at the red light, and Willow chewed on her bottom lip as she stole yet another glance at her friend in the driver's seat.  "So…did you get a lot done today?" she asked.  "Giles said he didn't get a chance to ask you yet."

The smile Spike shot her took her by surprise.  "Ripper's just brassed off 'cause I told him he could take a flyin' leap if he even thought about keeping me away from Heaven tonight," he replied jovially.  "He's just savin' his pride."

"I'm surprised you'd be in such a hurry to go back after getting the boot last night," she commented.  

"Aw, now c'mon, Red.  Since when do you know me to give up so easy?"  His eyes danced in devilish delight, a twinkle of sapphire, as the lights changed and his foot rested heavily against the accelerator, the car gunning forward into the surge of traffic.  "Something tells me that that Buffy Summers isn't such a wrong number.  How much you want to wager that I can even get her to smile at me tonight?"

Willow immediately frowned.  "What did you do today, Spike?" she demanded.  "And don't give me any line about being in the shower all afternoon.  I haven't seen you in this good of a mood since…"  Her voice trailed off, the memory of how he'd appeared the morning after he'd met his mystery woman popping back into her head.  "Oh," she said, eyes snapping forward, her face instantly devoid of anything he might misconstrue.  Stupid question to ask, she scolded herself.  Obviously, he saw her again.

"What?" Spike asked.

"Nothing."

"Not nothin'.  You're thinking something.  Don't try lyin' to me and tell me you're not."  His tone was amiable, and though she caught the warning in his words, Willow could tell that he was only joking around.  Whoever the dame was, she had Spike wrapped around her little finger, whether she realized it or not.

"It's none of my business," she said out loud.  "You're a grown-up.  You can take care of yourself.  And why haven't you asked me about _my_ day yet?"  Change the subject, she thought.  That's good.  

Spike chuckled.  "So _that's_ why you're so distracted," he said.  "Knew that date would put a smile on your face."

She colored.  "It wasn't a date.  It was a…fact-finding mission."

Though he kept his eyes on the road ahead, he couldn't help the amused quirk of his lips.  Fact-finding mission?  He'd see about that.  "Fair enough," Spike said.  "So, what facts did you find out?  What's he do again?"

"He runs Heaven.  General manager type of responsibilities."

"And how long's he been doin' that?"

"A few years."

"And what's his favorite color?"

"Blue."

Willow knew as soon as the word popped out of her mouth what he had done, and flushed in embarrassment.  So, all right, she hadn't really found out very much that was useful in the job front.  A good part of their time had been discussing books and history.  She was amazed at how literate he actually was; he seemed far too intelligent to be running a nightclub for a living.  With that kind of information at his fingertips, it seemed more appropriate for him to be a professor or something.  Some kind of career that required him to be so knowledgeable.  

"I did get some background information on Angel and his fiancée," she argued.  "And I plan on getting more tonight by talking to Buffy myself.  She might be able to offer us a different perspective about the Mayor's activities.  Something we can use to figure out how to get close enough to him to do the job."

They pulled up to another stoplight, and Spike glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  "There's nothin' wrong in liking the guy," he said gently.  "You deserve to have a spot of fun in your life.  Just remember who he works for, all right?  I don't want to see you gettin' hurt."

"Like I would ever do something as silly as that," Willow said with a dismissive gesture of her hand.  But she had.  They both had.  When Wesley had come back to the table and commented about pretending they were just two strangers who had met by coincidence, she had jumped at the opportunity, laughing and joking with him like she hadn't done with anyone in a very long time.  Not since Oz at least.  He'd enjoyed it as well; she wasn't so naïve as to not see that.  Even when she'd tried steering the conversation back to Heaven when he'd been taking her back to her hotel, his answers had been perfunctory, just enough to satisfy her requests before shifting back to topics that seemed to matter more to him.

They were silent for the rest of the trip, both Spike and Willow lost in reminiscences of their day, and it wasn't until he pulled the Desoto up to the front door of Heaven that the redhead looked over at him again.  "I'm not the only one who deserves some happy times, you know," she said softly.  She didn't have to tell him she knew about the girl, but she sure as heck could tell him how she felt about it.  "I think you've been waiting in line long enough for your share, too.  I like seeing you like this.  You know, smiling and…happy, and not all…"  She scrunched her face into a snarl, turning her hands into claws.  "…grrrr.  Whatever the cause of it…I hope it works out."

Quickly, she leaned over and gave the surprised blond a peck on the cheek before pushing her door open and scurrying inside.  She didn't even look back.  If she had, she would've seen the surprised confusion lighting her friend's face, the small line between his dark brows as he contemplated the now-closed club door.

*************

She was early, but then she'd planned it that way, deliberately asking Spike to drop her off at work because she knew she could rely on him for that.  Giles and Xander would be arriving later, as would Spike, but she wanted the time before the doors would be open to the public to try and get to know this Buffy Summers just a little more.  She hadn't been kidding when she'd said that in the car.

Her rap at the door was almost lost in the hubbub happening in the rear of the club, and her green eyes darted around the milling band members, watching as Jonathan scurried around with his clipboard.  She would've denied it if anyone had asked, but Willow felt a twinge of disappointment when she failed to spot Wesley anywhere in the crowd.

"Come in!" Buffy called from the other side of the door.

Hesitantly, Willow pushed open the door, edging her head and shoulders through the crack to peek inside.  "Hi there," she said.  "You got a min…ute…"  Her voice trailed away as her eyes widened, drinking in the sight of the blonde sitting amidst the dozens of daisies scattered around the dressing room.

Buffy seemed adrift among the flowers, nuzzling the nearest to her nose to drown in their scent, the faintest of smiles curling her lips.  Slowly, her lashes lifted to look at the doorway, and recognition flickered behind the hazel.  "You're the new coat check girl, right?" she asked.  "It's…Willow, isn't it?"

"Yeah.  Can I come in?"

"Sure."

Easing the door closed behind her, the redhead hovered by the entrance, unsure what to say next.  Somehow, her plan on getting to know the singer had seemed much clearer before she'd actually come into the dressing room.  "Beautiful flowers," she commented, her fingers going out to hover over the nearest bunch.  "Is this Angel's way to make up for your fight last night?"

The mention of her fiance's name seemed to draw a shutter over Buffy's face, and she rose from her seat, crossing to the clothes rail on the far wall.  "I'm sorry you had to see that," she said, sliding her hand over the various garments that hung there.  "I don't like arguing in public, but sometimes…he doesn't seem to care about that kind of thing."

"Men can be real palookas sometimes," Willow agreed, and the ingenuousness of the look on her face drew a smile to the other woman's face.

Buffy's gaze drifted to the daisies.  "Yeah," she agreed quietly.  

There was silence for a moment as Willow searched for something to explain her presence.  A fragment of her conversation with Xander that morning came drifting back, and she latched onto it greedily.  "I wanted to tell you how much my friend loved your show last night," she said.  "I think if he wasn't married, you just might have earned yourself a new biggest fan."

"Glad he liked it," she replied, distracted.  She pulled out two dresses and held them up for Willow to see.  "Which of these do you like better?"

She suddenly felt very frumpy, gazing at the elegance of the two gowns, straightening as she smoothed out the black taffeta of her own skirt.  "They're both nice," she said.  "Is there a certain effect you're going for tonight?"

Buffy shrugged.  "Not really.  I'm just in the mood to look amazing."

"Oh, then the blue one, definitely.  The black's very glamorous but the other's more…glowy."

She couldn't help but smile.  "Glowy?  Is that a word?"

"It is in Willow-world."

"Willow-world sounds like fun."  Buffy put the black back on the rail.  "Blue it is, then."

When Buffy stepped behind the screen to get changed, Willow edged her way further into the room, looking around without the scrutiny from its owner.  Other than her make-up and dresses, there were no effects to personalize the space, almost as if the singer didn't really see this as part of her life.  Not even a picture of her fiancé, the redhead mused.  Interesting.

"You're a lot nicer than the last coat check girl," Buffy was saying.  "She was a real sourpuss."

"Yeah, I've heard that."  Her eyes lit on the small envelope jutting out from the spray of daisies on the dressing table, and with a furtive glance toward the screen, she reached forward and plucked it from its hold.  "My theory is that she suffered from sore feet and it made her cranky.  That was the one part of last night I hated.  I've figured out how to get around it, though."  She pulled the card from the envelope.  "Nobody can see my feet behind the counter so I brought slippers to stand around…in…"

The words faded in her throat as her eyes widened, scanning the contents of the card once, twice, a third time, as if each pass would somehow make its message different.  

_Because you deserve to feel beautiful every day. – Spike_

A knock at the door startled Willow, and she scrambled to shove the card back into its holder, stuffing it back into the flowers with a guilty flush as Buffy called out, "Come in!"

It opened and Wesley appeared in the entrance, immaculately groomed in a dark suit that set off his blue eyes.  The first thing he spotted was the redhead standing at the dressing table, hands clasped in front of her, and smiled broadly.

"I didn't know you'd arrived yet," he said, taking a step toward her.

"What're you talking about?" Buffy asked before Willow could reply.  "You saw me come in, Wes.  You held the door open for me, remember?"

Her eyes darted from his face to the screen, and her smile was surprisingly nervous.  "Um, I think he was talking about me," Willow said.  

"Oh."  The blonde poked her head out to look at her guests, eyes flicking from the stain in the redhead's cheeks, to the pent-up lean of Wes' torso as he fought his feet to get even nearer to the other woman.  "Did you need something?"

"Need?  Oh.  Right."  He forced his gaze to swivel to the screen.  "Mr. Wilkins has requested that you only perform the first set tonight.  He would like to have an opportunity to dine with you and Angel to celebrate your engagement.  I've already made arrangements for alternate entertainment for the rest of the evening after you're done."

"Oh," she repeated, and did what she could to fight the disappointment in her voice.  "Thank you for telling me."  She disappeared back behind her screen.

Wes' eyes turned back to Willow, and swept over the simple lines of her dress, the wine-colored velvet bodice accentuating her upper curves, while the black taffeta of the skirt flared around her hips.  "You look lovelier every time I see you," he commented.

"Thank you," she stammered.

His gaze darted to the screen as he took another step closer to her.  "Could I possibly see you in my office before you start your shift?" he queried, his voice dropping in volume.  "I was hoping we might discuss…lunches."

Her heart was pounding in her chest, and for a split second, Willow wished she had the gumption to just throw her arms around his neck and give him a huge kiss.  And more, a small voice inside her head goaded.  She flushed at the thought, wondering at her own bravado, and smiled as innocently as she could manage, hoping that the naughty thoughts going through her head couldn't be read on her face.  "I'll be right there," she said out loud.

When Buffy emerged from behind the screen, Willow's eyes were still locked on the door, wistful and distant, all thoughts of what she had found in the flowers gone.  She did deserve some happiness, darn it, and being around Wesley certainly made the butterflies that lived in her stomach feel like flying free.

"Do you have to go now?" Buffy asked gently

"Huh?"  She jerked from her reverie.  "Oh, go, yes, Wesley asked me to---."

"I heard."  Her smile was kind, teasing in a friendly way.  "Word of advice?  Wes isn't one of the palookas of the world.  He's as good a guy as they come.  Trust me on this."

She couldn't help her smile of relief.  Independent confirmation for her own gut instincts was always good, even if it was from someone she barely knew, someone who was engaged to…

The note and its contents came skittering back to her consciousness, and Willow's smile faded as she edged her way toward the door.  Thinking about her own lovelife, although fun, wasn't nearly as important as trying to figure out why Spike was sending flowers to their mark's future daughter-in-law.  There were lives in the balance here, and as much as she wanted her friend to be happy, she couldn't let this one just slip on by without some mention.

"Thanks," she said at the doorway.  "Have a good show."

*************

She'd barely rapped at the door before it was pulled open, and Wesley was beaming down at her, holding it open enough for her to slip in past him.  "I didn't mean to interrupt you and Buffy," he apologized as she shut the door behind her.  

"We were done," Willow replied, and stopped in front of the desk, turning to look at him as he closed the gap between them.  "What is it you wanted?"

"I wanted to ask you what you were doing tomorrow," he said.  "Lunch was so enjoyable today, I rather hoped you'd be interested in repeating it."

"Well, I _do_ have this insane need to have lunch every day," she teased.  "I don't see why you shouldn't be a part of that ritual as well."

He chuckled.  "And here I feared you'd find me too forward."  Another step, and the distance had narrowed to just a couple feet, his gaze steady on hers as he tried to gauge her reaction.

"I like forward," she managed.  Nearness equals good, Willow thought wildly, and oh my goodness, he is very much nearer.  Did he smell this good at lunch?  Why didn't I notice his smell before?  "It's much better than being backward," she finished, trying to joke her way past the flutters being around him was creating in her stomach.

"Will you do me a favor tonight?"

Automatically, her nerves plummeted.  Favor.  In exchange for lunch and nice compliments.  I should've seen that one coming, she thought.  That one had predictable written all over it.

"Sure, whatever you want," she chirped in spite of her gloomier mood.

"As you heard in Buffy's dressing room, Angel will be in again this evening.  If he…approaches you in any way, would you please tell me about it?"  His smile had vanished, the blue darkening as he gazed down at her in seriousness.

The tremor of what he meant rippled through Willow's head, her mood shifting yet again as the implication of what he was saying sank in.  "Of course," she said slowly.  "But…why?  I mean, he's the boss, right?  Don't I have to do pretty much what he says?"

His mouth settled into a thin line.  "Being one of Heaven's owners does not give him the right to treat you inappropriately.  I won't stand for it."

"Why?  Because…you're my manager?"  Why was she holding her breath?  What did she think he was going to say?

"What?  No, of course not," he stuttered, only to stop and backpeddle as he realized what he'd said.  "Well, of course, I'm your manager, and as such, I'm concerned about the welfare of the staff here.  But this…"  All of a sudden, he seemed much less sure of himself, ducking his gaze.  "…I know it doesn't seem appropriate and such, as technically, you _do_ work for me.  And I have to admit, you present an interesting paradox that I find remarkably curious.  There really is no reason for me to assume---."

Her hand was light against his forearm.  "It's OK, Wesley," she said.  "I like you, too."

She'd debated letting him go on, trying to find the words that would say what he wanted without actually having to say the words, but a swell of courage had risen in her throat, and she'd flashed on just how empty of companionship her life had been since Oz had left the country.  Oh sure, she had Spike and Giles, and her little crush on Xander had been distracting for a while, but none of it really compared to that sense of closeness that came from knowing someone's favorite place was in your arms, just as your favorite place was in theirs.  She claimed to like the forward?  It was about time she acted like it.

He seemed slightly taken aback at the directness of her words, and hesitated before the smile slowly canted across his face.  "Well, I must say I'm feeling rather foolish," he said lightly.  "I simply must learn to stop talking at some point."

Her own lips quirked.  "I think that's a lesson I could handle a refresher course on, as well," she said.

"I'm serious, though," he said, and his eyes seemed darker, more intense as he searched her face.  "Angel can be…unpredictable.  And I'd rather you weren't at the…wrong end of his variability."  Slowly, Wesley's hand came up and brushed back a loose strand of her hair, his fingertips trailing across her cheek as he did so.

Better than a kiss, she decided, her heart pounding in her throat.  "I promise."

*************

Eight, she'd said.  And it was now quarter of.  Fifteen minutes.  Felt like it would last an eternity.

Though Ripper had argued the wisdom of showing his face two nights in a row, there was no way Spike was going to miss her show tonight, not after the events at the diner.  Not after that kiss.  Hell, not after seeing her disable the second shooter without so much as blinking an eyelash.

So many questions.  He'd spent a good part of the afternoon mulling over the contradiction that was Buffy Summers.  Everything about that first night seemed so on the money now, different faces for different people, and now the bulk of his musings focused on how a dame like that had learned to shoot so straight.  Mickey had been her teacher, she'd claimed, but why him?  Why not Angel or one of his crew?  The matter of her being so handy with a weapon made sense---Dru had certainly known her way around a shiv---but Buffy hadn't seemed the sort.  Singing was her bag, not slinging, yet she'd knocked out the second shooter as cleanly as if she'd been a pro.

When Spike had stopped by the hotel to pick up Red, Ripper had attempted again to broach the subject of the chanteuse, and for a brief moment, Spike had debated spilling what he knew.  Something had happened to Buffy in California and with the older man's contacts, they could have that information relatively quickly.  He'd held his tongue, though, once Rip had launched into his latest "keep your mug out of the spotlight or this whole job'll go to hell" spiel.  No way was he not seeing her again.

And now here they were.  Or rather, here he was, seated in the same spot as the previous evening.  Harris and Ripper sat at a table on the other side of the stage, near where Angel had been their first foray into Heaven.  Red was out front, and though it had appeared when he'd first arrived that she had been trying to get his attention, Spike had just given her a small nod and headed straight inside to wait, too excited about the night's prospects to dally in small talk.

Ten minutes.  Fuck.  He hated waiting.

Movement at the main room's entrance caught his gaze over the rim of his tumbler, and Spike glanced up to see Angel step inside.  His mouth curling in disgust, he was about to catch Harris' eye when the pair who entered behind arrested his attention.

He was exactly as his photos had depicted him---the wide smile, cheeks well-creased from long-etched laugh lines, grey-blue eyes that seemed friendly at first appearance but glinted underneath with a steel malice, betraying his grim determination to win at all costs.  Even the spotlessly pressed tuxedo was to be expected.

What wasn't expected was his companion.

Her dress left little to the imagination, a black silk sheath that clung to her generous curves.  Spike's gaze slipped up her form, noting the gold tone of her bare arms, the dark cascade of casual waves that fell past her shoulders, the glossy scarlet of too-full lips parted in a seductive smile, huge doe eyes that did more than make promises.

The Mayor might be widowed but he sure as hell wasn't dead.  Whoever she was, his date dripped sex with a capital X.

Harris was moving before Spike could even look away, his amiable grin on his face as he approached the trio with an outstretched hand.  Though he couldn't hear what was being said, it wasn't necessary; they were already being guided to the table beside Xander and Ripper's, the Mayor's hand pressed possessively to the small of the brunette's back.

They could go digging for all the information that they wanted; at that moment, Spike didn't care.  One more sweep over them and he was certain.

He knew now exactly how he was going to get to the Mayor.

Only the dimming of the lights could yank Spike from his mental planning, and he shifted in his seat just in time to see the stage go dark.  Beneath his ribs, his heart began to hammer in anticipation and he found himself leaning forward, waiting, willing the time to go by faster, too eager just to be allowed to see her again.

"We meet, and the angels sing…"

Just as before.  The voice reaching out into the darkness, searching for the balm to ease its pain.

"…the angels sing the sweetest song I ever heard…"

And then the lights, or rather spotlight, highlighting her at the microphone in a gossamer haze.

"You speak, and the angels sing, or am I breathing music into every word…"

She glowed.  Where the previous evening she had been taunting her audience with her golden sensuality, tonight Buffy floated before them, an ethereal sprite bowing from the heavens.  The pale aqua silk flowed like liquid air over her curves, shimmering and iridescent in the stage lights.  While the fitted halter bodice arched downward around her breasts, a pleated tulle inset of the same shade covered the swathe of bodice exposed by the scooped fabric and another nestled between the cut-outs of the floor-length skirt.  She was stunning.

Their eyes met then, and there was no denying the ghost of a smile that lit in the grey-green before she looked away again.  Though he knew she sang for all in the club, the glimmer she offered him told Spike the words were meant for him, only him, and his skin warmed at the thought.  He'd been right about the connection.  He was just glad she seemed to be more willing to lend it more credence, too.

*************

It lasted both too long and not long enough.  Though every second watching her left Spike breathless, wanting more, hungry for another moment of the magic she wove with her voice, he itched for her to leave the stage, to go back to her dressing room so that he could follow, to find out when exactly he could see her again.

He was behaving like an addict, but frankly, he didn't care.  He'd merely switched his drug of choice from booze to Buffy Summers.

Spike was surprised, when instead of disappearing, she descended the stage with a smile and joined Angel at his table, her body leaning into his when he draped his arm across the back of her chair.  That made six there then---Harris and Ripper had long since moved places---and Spike felt the all too-familiar feeling of being left behind surge within his stomach.

_What'd you expect, mate?_ the devil inside his head commented dryly.  _She's got a life that doesn't involve you.  Why'd you think that would change just because you sent her a few flowers?_

Because there's something between us and she knows it, Spike argued back.

The devil chuckled.  _Something she doesn't want the world to know about.  Like a dirty little secret she can pull out to play with in Willy and Mickey's world, where she doesn't have to fuss about people asking questions she doesn't want to answer._

She kissed me.  She invited me to see her tonight.

_And that's why she's hoofing it with her fiancé, and not with you, you git._

His knuckles were white as his grip tightened around his glass.  Buffy and Angel were on the dance floor, the gentle strains of the band coaxing them to glide along in a waltz.  Although there was an ease to their movements, a familiarity borne from years of practice, something about it seemed off, Buffy's petite form dwarfed by Angel's bulk, as if any moment he would overwhelm her.

Not right, Spike thought.  Don't care what she says.  Should be me.

One swig was all it took finish his drink.

One slide of his chair was all it took to rise to his feet.

*************

Xander saw it first and glanced furtively at the Mayor, noting the older man's distraction by the constant nuzzling of his girlfriend before clutching at Giles' sleeve.  Turning just enough from their host so his words would be unheard, he singsonged, "What's he doing, what's he doing, what's he doing?"

"Who?" Giles replied.  His lips never moved, the single word just a slight exhalation.

"Spike."

Two sets of eyes swiveled to see the blond stalking across the dance floor, head bent in ruthless purpose as he approached the couple.

"Please tell me he's not packing tonight."

The look Giles shot him was the only response necessary, the Englishman's body tensing to rise.  "Get ready to grab Willow," he said.  "I'll---."

"Wait."  Xander's hand curled around Giles' arm.

They watched as Spike tapped Angel on the shoulder, and though they couldn't hear the exchange that followed, both men relaxed as Spike's hands remained clearly in view.

"That man will never cease to amaze me," Giles murmured.

"I can't _wait_ to hear the explanation for this one."

*************

"You wanna what?"

It took every ounce of control he could muster not to deck the prat then and there, but Spike kept his gaze level, his mouth quirked in a wry smile.  "It's called dancin', mate.  Last I heard, cutting in wasn't a crime."

"I don't share my girl, not even for a dance."  Angel glowered, puffing up his shoulders as he sought to accentuate the size difference between them.  "Just who do you think you are?"

Buffy squeezed her fiance's forearm.  "The song's almost over anyway, Angel.  It's jake.  He's a…"  She glanced at Spike.  "…fan."

"I don't like it."  He announced it with a childish pout, but it was obvious he was conceding.

"Just this one," she promised and stood on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Spike waited until Angel had stepped away before taking Buffy into the circle of his arms, his hand resting light in the small of her back as he guided her further away from her table.  All doubts disappeared as the rightness of feeling her pliant body pressed to his, a perfect fit as though they had been cast from complementary molds, pervaded his being, easing him into the dance as if it was the only thing they'd ever done.  "You look stunning," he murmured.

He was rewarded with a faint blush.  "Not as beautiful as the daisies," she answered, her voice just as low.  "Thank you for those."

"What say you and me blow this joint?" he asked, blue eyes dark as they searched hers.  "There's so much---."

"I can't."  Although none of it was revealed in her face, the entreaty tinged her words.  "Please don't make this so much harder for me.  Mr. Wilkins is insisted we eat as well."

Spike's eyes darted over her shoulder.  "Looks a bit busy to me," he commented.  "I don't think he'd even notice."

She allowed herself a quick glance.  "Oh, he'll notice.  That's what he does.  Faith won't keep him distracted for long."

"So when can I see you?  You can't expect me to just sit back and watch you with that wanker, Buffy.  Not after what's happened between us."

For the first time, her smile faded.  "You didn't have to come tonight."

Spike rolled his eyes.  "Right.  Might as well tell me not to breathe."

The song was close to ending and she knew she would be left of him soon, her attentions forced elsewhere while he was left to stew.  Panic closed her throat, tightening her chest, and she took exactly ten seconds to have the debate inside her head.

"I'll make sure I leave here at midnight," she said quickly.  "Be at my apartment at twelve-thirty.  We can be alone there."  The music faded away, leaving her no more reason to be publicly within his embrace.  Carefully, Buffy extracted herself from his arms, stepping away so that the pretense could be kept.  "I'll send a note to Jonathan with my address on it," she said through her polite smile.  "Get it from him."

He watched as Angel appeared at her shoulder, taking her elbow in his large hand and steering her back to their table without saying another word to Spike.  Part of him felt like she'd merely tossed him a bone, offering him the scraps of her company outside the open realm of her real life.  Another part---a much bigger, celebrating like it's New Year's part---reveled in the knowledge that he would get more time with her, in the private sanctum of her flat, with hours to discover even more of those delicious secrets locked inside her pretty head.  No interruptions from would-be assassins.  Just the two of them.  And a bed.

He could really use a cigarette about now.

*************

The sounds of traffic from the street filtered down the alley, working with the nicotine to soothe the tension in Spike's body as he leaned against the wall of the club, staring at nothing as he remembered the supple pressure of Buffy's breasts against his chest, the tickle of her breath along his skin.  If he thought waiting that fifteen minutes before her show was an eternity, how the hell was he going to last the next three hours? he wondered.

Beside him, the side entrance to Heaven creaked open and he turned his head to see the Mayor's date emerge, her purse dangling from her hand.  She spotted him immediately, her red lips spreading into a knowing smile, but waited to speak until the door was closed tightly behind her.

"Care to share your air?" she asked, reaching into her bag and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

Spike shrugged.  "Free country and all.  Not really mine to share."

"How about a light then?"

His hand scooped into his jacket pocket, removing his lighter and cupping his hand around the flame when it came.  She leaned forward, holding her hair back as she sucked on the filter, its tip glowing in the dimly lit alley, and both of them knew the angle of her body afforded him more than an ample view of her cleavage.  When she straightened, her lips pursed, expertly blowing out the first breath of smoke in her lungs.  "I'm Faith," she said.

"Not the name I would've slapped on a dame like you," Spike taunted with a grin.

She laughed.  "I think I'd surprise you, big boy.  I'm just that kind of gal."

"Funny, I've been meeting a lot of those these days."

Her eyes darted to the doorway before returning to the shadows of his face.  "Yeah, I saw you dancing with B.  Now why am I not shocked that you're the type who likes to play with fire…?"

"Seems as if I'm not the only one.  Interesting date you've got there."

For the first time since emerging, Faith's face hardened, anger flashing behind the brown of her eyes.  "Stones and glass houses, buddy.  Because I think if anyone's got a death wish around here, it's going to be one William the Bloody Rook."  When he started at the sound of his given name, she laughed.  "Guess me knowing your name counts as surprise number one then…"

To be continued in Chapter 10: Bullet Scars…


	10. Bullet Scars

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Willow has discovered that Spike sent Buffy flowers, Buffy has agreed to see Spike after work, and Faith has recognized Spike as being William 'the Bloody' Rook…

*************

The ash fell forgotten from his cigarette as he stared at Faith, his eyes narrowed in wary contemplation as red shadows from the neon in the street filtered into the alley and danced across her face.  "Helluva pick-up line you've got there," Spike drawled.  "Can't say as I've heard that one recently."

"A girl likes to be original," she said, smiling.  "I don't see you arguing about it, though.  What is it they're calling you these days?  Spike?"  Her gaze swept suggestively over him, lingering at his hips before traveling back up.  "I'd love to find out if _that_ one's true."

He ignored her entendre, the question of how she knew his identity still demanding his attention, and dropped his cigarette to the ground, tamping it out with the toe of his shoe.  He'd known he'd get fingered sooner or later; he just thought it would be by somebody he actually knew, not some two-bit chippy he'd never laid eyes on before.  That, combined with the fact that she knew what he was going by now, didn't sit well with him.  Wouldn't sit well with Ripper either if he knew about it, Spike thought.  "Think I'd like to be put wise to just how exactly you fancy you know me, pet," he said out loud.  

Faith feigned confusion, lifting her free hand to her chest.  "Now, did I say I _knew_ you?" she said.  "My mistake.  I guess I just got a little jingle-brained being in the presence of the best dropper the Conti family ever had.  That kind of celebrity can really confuse a girl."

The step he took toward her was menacing, his mouth grim, eyes deadly.  More than one person had turned tail at such an advance, but not Faith.  She merely lifted her chin and smiled at him, waiting for him to respond as she took a long drag from her cigarette.

"You know who I am, then you know you don't fuck with me," Spike growled, his patience gone.  "Who are you?  'Cause I've gotta admit, I'm pretty sure I'd remember meeting a dame like you, and you're not ringin' any bells."  It was his turn to slide a lascivious leer over her curves.  "Least, not the sort that go off inside my skull."

She laughed out loud then, the smoke drifting around her head.  "Now, if I hadn't seen the goo goo eyes you were giving B, I might actually think you meant that, Spike."  She tilted her head, eyes speculative.  "Or do you want me to call you William?  I could do Bloody, but personally, I think that just sounds stupid."

"Spike's good.  And you haven't answered my question."

"I told you who I am.  And we haven't met before, so you can stop worrying about trying to place me.  I've just spent enough time on these streets to know who to keep an eye out for.  Except you've not been around lately, right?  Last I heard, you'd skipped town.  That was…what?  Four?  Five years ago?"

He didn't answer her, some of his tension easing.  She was telling the truth, that much he could tell at least.  And she wasn't afraid of him.  Had to give her points for that.  "So, you a pro skirt?  Did you work for Conti or something?"

"Pro…no, not any more.  I've been off the streets for a couple years now.  Thanks to Richard."  Her head jerked back toward the club, but it didn't distract Spike from scrutinizing her face.  "And Conti never wanted me.  Said I was too common."

"That's not the word I'd use to describe you."

Faith sobered then, taking one last draw on the filter before flicking it away into the darkness, the absence of its scarlet tip leaving her face in shadows.  "You still on the job?" she asked.  "Or are you looking for new employment?  'Cause, gotta tell you, seeing you hanging around Heaven does not fill me with sunshine here, sport.  You've got a way of dragging death around behind you, and this is one arrangement I don't want you killing for me."

So that was it.  It made sense now, and Spike stepped back, leaning against the wall of the club as his head tilted to survey the bravado hardening Faith's eyes.  She had to have been just a kid when he'd been in New York before, only eighteen or nineteen, but if she was a pro, odds were good that she'd known of him.  He'd been popular among the women, and when Dru had left him, he'd tried burying himself in sex as a means of coping with his rejection, not really caring if he used a professional or just a skirt off the street to get his rocks off.  And now here Faith was, sitting in the lap of Wilkins luxury, and she was just scared Spike was there to fuck it up for her.

Too bad she was right.  He kind of liked her.

"I work for myself these days," he said, avoiding the direct issue.  "And I don't plan on bein' in the city for much longer."

"I think Angel's going to be happy to hear that.  Something tells me B's going to be a little distracted having you around."

Spike snorted.  "Wanker's deaf and dumb.  Buffy---."

"You're stupid if you think you can underestimate him."  Faith's voice cut him off cleanly, cold and hard.  "Angel is his father's son, through and through.  Fuck with him by messing around with B, and he'll cut your balls off, Spike.  Just a word of advice."

"And here I thought you were all about Daddy Warbucks.  Does itty bitty Faith got a thing for keepin' it in the family?  Probably a good thing he doesn't have a daughter---."  He grinned as his hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could pull out the gun she had in her purse, locking her tight in his grip.  "Don't think that's a good idea, pet."

She refused to let the pain of his hold register on her face, staring him down.  "I'm not so itty, and I'm definitely not bitty so I suggest you let me go before I scream.  You don't want Richard's men to come out here and break up our little party, now do you?"

Stalemate.  He knew it.  She knew it.  Didn't mean he was going to let her go, though.

"How did you know my name?" he asked, loosening his fingers without releasing her.

"I told you---."

"No.  The Spike part."

The corner of her mouth lifted.  "You should tell your friends they talk too loud."  At the small line that appeared between his brows, she added, "Richard didn't hear them.  He was more than a little busy at the time."

So she'd come out on her own.  And she was offering a deal by keeping his identity to herself for the moment.  He still had a bit of a grace period with his presence around Heaven, and though he didn't buy her assessment of Angel, she was proving to him that she only had her own interests in mind.  As long as Spike played it straight with her, he didn't think Faith was going to be a problem.  At least, not until he killed her meal ticket.

Spike's hand dropped back down to his side, and he stepped away from the wall, passing by her to head to the mouth of the alley.  "Thanks for the tip.  And just for that…" He stopped, head ducking as he looked back at her over his shoulder.  "…I promise not to poke my mug around Heaven again.  Seein' as we're from the same neighborhood and all.  No reason for anyone to know William was around…right?"

She took a long time to respond, and briefly he wondered if he'd mistaken her intent, watching as her fingers deliberately played with the strap of her purse.  "I like B," Faith finally said.  "Don't fuck this up for her, OK, _Spike_?"

The emphasis on his nickname was all he needed, and he grinned back at her, teeth gleaming in the light of the streetlamp on the sidewalk.  "Wouldn't dream of it, pet," he said, and stuffed his hand into his pocket, fingering the slip of paper he'd already snagged from that Jonathan as he ambled away into the night.

*************

She was crazy.  There was no doubt about it.  Letting Spike know where she lived was inviting disaster, but for some inexplicable reason, Buffy didn't care.  It wasn't as if he wasn't a grown man, more than capable of taking care of himself.  He'd proven that this afternoon.  But stunts like the dancing at Heaven would have to stop, regardless of how much either of them had enjoyed it.  She couldn't let Angel catch on to what was going on if she wanted any success in her plans.

Her heart was pounding within her chest as she darted through the stairwell door, her bag swinging at her side as she rushed down the hall.  It wasn't quite twelve-thirty; she wanted the few minutes before Spike was scheduled to arrive to freshen up.  Angel had spent the last hour before she left the club with his hands all over her, and the heavy scent of his over-priced cologne clogged her pores, made trying to imagine the promise of what lie ahead next to impossible.

When had his touch turned into something that left her cold? Buffy wondered.  The answer came immediately, startling her in its simplicity.

The moment Spike had pushed the hair away from her forehead, rested his own against it, and told her that she _was_ beautiful.

It wasn't so much that Angel was a bad guy.  Sure, there was the whole family business, but he'd always seemed to be apart from it, not really interested except when it got in his way.  And when it came to Buffy, he was more than attentive.  Overly attentive, a lot of the time.  Watching her, even when she wasn't supposed to know he was.  Buying her gifts---lots of them, and the bigger the better in his eyes---that usually ended up stored away in a box unless the situation demanded that she bring it out.  He was constantly telling her how great she was, but his words lacked sincerity to her ears.  She knew that she was just another trophy for him to display, and no amount of gaudy jewelry or expensive dresses was going to convince her that he thought of her in any other way.

Spike was different.  He'd said it that night---god, was it just two days ago?---after seeing _her_, not the projection that she gave the rest of the world.  And he'd meant it.  That was painfully obvious.

And she'd pretty much been lost from that moment onward.

She was still lost in remembering that moment when she rounded the corner of the hallway, her hand already dipping into her purse for her keys.  She brought herself up short when she saw him leaning against the wall next to her door, left leg bent, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.  Immediately, her mouth watered.

"You're early," Buffy said unnecessarily.

"So're you."

"I was going to clean up before you got here."

His lips curled into a smile.  "Don't let me be the one to stop you."

When she brushed past him to unlock her door, Spike straightened, lifting his hand to run a single finger down the line of her spine, feathering over her flesh through her jacket.  Electric tingles shot down the back of her thighs though there was no contact of his skin to hers, and flashes of what was going to happen once they were both on the other side of her apartment door brought a flush of heat to Buffy's cheeks.  Her breath hitched in her chest, and she turned the knob with as steady a hand as she could manage, pushing it open and entering without even looking to see if Spike was following.

He would.  She had no doubt about that.

Her apartment wasn't what he was expecting.  So much of what Buffy presented to the world was polished, the sheen of glamour lending everything she touched an edge of sophistication, that to see the cozy comfort of how she chose to decorate her flat was mildly disconcerting.  It could've been lifted from a suburban family home, transplanted to the architecture of Manhattan---cushions almost burying the small couch, classically framed wooden tables at either end, a variety of generic prints on the walls.  A large chest was pushed into the corner, while an assortment of albums and books were stacked haphazardly on a small shelf unit near a nondescript opening to a narrow hall.

Buffy dropped her purse onto the sofa and headed straight for the kitchen.  "Do you want something to drink?" she called out from the other room.

"I'm fine," Spike replied, and tilted his head to scan the titles of the books.

"Are you sure?  I've got some wine."

His hand reached forward and extracted a thin photo album.  "Only if it's not a problem, pet," he called back.

He could hear the sounds of cupboards opening and closing, the clink of glasses coming to rest on the counter, and casually flipped the album's cover, hefting the weight of the leather as his gaze settled on the picture on its first page.  A young Buffy, fifteen, maybe sixteen, wide smile beaming at the camera.  It wasn't her face that captured him though, as beautiful and innocent as she was.  It was the visages of the two women with her that did.

Family, obviously.  The three females were in a single file, the oldest in the back, blonde hair carefully coiffed, her generous smile lighting her face.  Then came a kneeling Buffy, and in the front, a gamine-faced ten-year-old sat cross-legged, freckles scattered across her nose, long dark hair plaited into two braids.  The trio was outside, in the sunshine, the unmistakable rise of palm trees in the background announcing for anyone who knew that they were in California.

His finger traced the outline of the picture, his gaze soft.  She seemed so young in the photo, as if she didn't have a care in the world.  Missing was the sadness that lurked behind the hazel, her cheeks slightly rounder with the extra padding of youth.  It was still her, though; Spike only wished that he could tear the heart out of the bastard who'd stolen that innocence from her.

"I don't know if it's any good," Buffy said as she came into the room, two glasses of red wine in her hands.  "I'm not really---."  She froze when she saw him standing there, his blond head bowed as he looked down at the album, fear chilling her veins.  "You really don't have any problems just making yourself at home, do you," she commented coldly.

"She looks like a real lady," Spike said.  His voice was soft, and when he turned his head to look at her, Buffy saw the sad glint in the blue of his eyes.  "Is this your mum?"

It took her a moment to respond, but eventually, she nodded.  "And…Dawn.  My little sister."

His gaze returned to the picture.  "This was out in Sunnydale, right?"

She took a step closer, some of the anxiety that had frozen her dissipating as the empathy in his tone called out to her.  "Please put it away, Spike," she asked.  "I don't…just…please."

He didn't hesitate at her request, returning the album back to its nook, and then turning to stride toward her in three long steps.  Taking the wine from her hands, Spike set them aside before pulling her into his arms, brushing his lips across her hair.  "Didn't mean to make it hurt, luv," he murmured, and felt the shudder pass through her body as she pressed into him, her face burrowing into her chest.  "Won't ever let anyone hurt you."

"I'm fine," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt.  "It was a long time ago.  I'm fine.  Really."

He didn't believe her, but if this was what she needed for now, Spike was willing to ignore the obvious and just let her know that he was there for her.  He frowned when she pulled away, averting her gaze as she forced the distance between them again.

"I smell like the club," Buffy complained.  "You don't want to hold me when I'm like this."

"I'm not fussed."

"Well, I am."  Her eyes flickered to the hall, to the shelves, and then back to Spike.  "I really was going to take a bath, you know."

His eyes were dark, raking over her.  "You still can," he purred.  

"So that you can go back to looking through my stuff as soon as I leave the room?" she teased.  "I don't think so."

"So I'll come with you."

His suggestion sucked the air from the room around her, vibrating against her flesh as her blood pounded against her skin from the inside out, heating her even in the absence of his touch.  "My bath's not big enough for two," she said softly, and found herself wishing that it wasn't true.

"I'll just watch then."  Spike's tongue darted out, the tip running over the edge of his teeth.  "Not like I haven't seen you before."

"And we'll…what?  Talk?"

"Talking's always good.  Or I can…help."

Buffy swallowed, and lifted her chin in hopes that it would belie the anxiousness shivering through her body.  "What were you thinking was going to happen here tonight, Spike?" she asked.  "What did you want?"

His reply was swift.  "Anything you're willing to give, luv.  Nothing more.  Could be just hearin' your voice.  Or maybe, if you'd like, I could help you relax.  You deserve that, you know.  You don't think you do, but you're wrong."

"I shouldn't."  So faint, barely a breath.  Not the strong Buffy she wanted to be.  "Angel's---."

"---not here," Spike finished.  "This is just you and me.  Like it should be.  Like that first night, remember?"

Like she could ever forget.  Like it wasn't imprinted in every muscle of her body, shadowed across every inhalation.

She didn't say another word.  She just crossed to his side and grabbed his hand, leading him toward the hallway and to her small bathroom, only letting him go once they were inside.  Without looking at Spike, Buffy set to running the bath, putting the stopper into the plug before turning the faucet on to as hot as she could stand.  She could feel him watching her from the doorway, but somehow, the fear that she would lose her nerve in doing this stopped her from looking at him, her stomach flip-flopping in unease as it hadn't done since she was a teenager.  It was silly, she knew.  It wasn't like it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, just like he'd said.

But the intimacy of the environment, the steam that rose from the water as the level rose in the tub, changed everything, and she didn't know why.  Her fingers were shaking as she slowly divested herself of her clothing, taking her time to fold them before stacking the items on the back of the toilet, keeping her eyes down as she stripped the stockings from her legs.  What was he thinking? Buffy wondered.  Did he like what he saw?  Was the reality of a bath enough to take the shine from his pretty words, force him to be honest about what and who she was?

"You forgot a towel," Spike said as she slid her nude form into the tub.

Only then did she turn her head to look at him, knees brought up against her chest in an attempt at modesty.  "Oh.  Closet in the hall."  When he stepped outside, she hastened to grab the washcloth and soap that rested in the dish in the corner, dropping the flannel into the water to warm it.  Her gaze darted to the doorway when Spike returned, and she held her breath as he crossed to set the yellow towel on the closed lid of the toilet.

"Why're you nervous?" he asked quietly, head tilted as he looked down at her.  "Are you scared of me?"

Buffy shook her head.  "Scared of _me_," she shocked herself by admitting.  "I'm not…like this, Spike.  You must think I'm loose or something."

He squatted at the side of the tub, forcing their gazes to lock on an even level.  "Nothin' could be farther from the truth," he said.  "I think you and me…have more in common than we realize."  The corner of his mouth canted in wry amusement.  "You were the one who brought up the similarities at Willy's, remember?  And then at Mickey's?  You were right.  Don't be afraid of that."

She looked away, her fingers flicking against the surface of the water, sending ripples away from her body in semi-circles that flattened out as they hit the sides of the porcelain.  "I've never seen anyone move like you did at Mickey's," she said quietly.  "Not even the best of Angel's boys.  How'd you do it?"

Spike chuckled.  "I could be asking you the same thing.  You want to tell me why you carry a gun around like it's a powder puff?"

He saw the color rise in her cheeks, and though the desire to look elsewhere, to allow himself to drink in her beauty was almost overwhelming, his eyes remained steady.  They only dropped when her slim fingers picked up the washcloth, wringing the water from it before handing it over to him.

"Make yourself useful," she said with a half-smile.  She kept herself curled forward as he took the flannel, eyes flickering closed as the rough fabric scraped across her shoulders.  Goosebumps erupted along her skin, her nipples hardening in arousal as the thought of his tongue joining the laving distracted her from his ministrations.  Not once had attention from Angel made her feel like this.  Each stroke flamed deep into her muscles, massaging the tension away even as it tightened those in her pelvis.

"Was gettin' away hard?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

Neutral conversation.  That's good, she thought.  Nothing too difficult.  "I put in my time," she said out loud.  "Angel was jake with that."

"Did he see the flowers?"  Part of him hoped the pillock had.  Force Buffy to make some sort of explanation.

"No.  We never left the front of the club.  But it wouldn't have mattered if he had.  He was so blitzed when I left, he would've forgotten completely about it in the morning."  The cloth trailed down her back, and the moan it elicited lowered her shoulders in acquiescence to his touch.  So lost was she in the fog the heat and coarseness was creating in her mind, she didn't even notice when it stopped, the washrag disappearing, to be replaced by the tip of his finger.

"What's this?" Spike queried.  

His timbre betrayed the shift in his emotions, and Buffy froze as she realized exactly what he'd found, mentally berating herself for forgetting even for a second.  "Just a reminder of bad times from a long time ago," she said stiffly.  Here is where all her secrets, all her attempts at trying to protect Spike from the truth, where he would walk out the door as soon as he realized she wasn't nearly as perfect as he thought, was going to blow up in her face.

"Who shot you, Buffy?"  She could feel his finger running over the fading scar, the ragged circle low on her left side, and was glad her eyes were closed so that she couldn't see the disappointment in his gaze.

"I never found out," she murmured.  "They never…caught him."

"California…right?"

She nodded.  There was no point in lying.  He'd just see through her anyway.  "It was a long time ago," she repeated.  "I'd rather not talk about it."  She held her breath, waiting for his response, feeling the seconds tick by in excruciating lethargy.

"Look at me."

There was no resisting the draw of his voice, the baritone tugging her chin to turn, lifting her lids to gaze at the dark of his eyes.  "What?" Buffy asked.  "Please don't make me tell you.  I'm not…I don't…"  She stopped as he dropped the cloth into the water, his damp fingers going to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one until his chest was exposed to the sultry air.

"You're not the only one with scars, Buffy," Spike said quietly, and took her hand to guide it to the whitened tissue that marred his shoulder.  

She knew without having to be told that he wasn't just referring to the marks on his skin, and felt her heart wrench in sympathy, the sudden irrational desire to hurt whoever had wounded him climbing in her throat.  "Stay the night," she said.  It surprised both of them.  Though the longing for him to do so had haunted her request for him to come over, she hadn't actually imagined that she'd follow through on it, not with the potential of Angel looming over them like a black shadow.  But at that moment in time, it seemed like the only thing she could do, knew that it was what both of them needed right then, especially when he lifted her hand to press his lips to her palm.

"I want…"  Asking for the specific was more difficult, and Buffy frowned, swallowing the lump in her throat before trying again.  "Nothing physical," she said.  "Just…holding.  You know, you…me…arms…"  It dawned on her he hadn't yet said yes, and the sudden fear that he was going to turn her down flared in her chest.  "Only if you want to, of course.  I don't---."

"I do," he said, and leaned forward, brushing his lips over hers.  "And sleep," Spike added.  "Don't forget sleep."

She smiled, relief relaxing her muscles for the first time since he'd found her scar.  Somehow, she thought sleep might be fleeting, but she didn't care.  He wasn't leaving.  Right then, that was the most important thing in the world to her.

*************

His back was to the office door when he heard it open, his son's footsteps muffled against the carpet.  "Is Faith in the car?" the Mayor asked, scanning the latest monthly reports about the club.

Angel nodded, then realized he couldn't be seen.  "Yeah," he affirmed.  "She was complaining, but I told her you'd see her back at the penthouse later and that shut her up."

"Good."  Turning around, he gazed at his son in cool scrutiny, noting how similar to his mother the young man looked.  "I need you to do a job for me."

Immediately, Angel's face fell.  "You're pulling my leg, right?  I've got plans.  I don't have time---."

"Do you have time to be dead?  Because if you ignore this, you will be.  Mark my words."

He was already backing up, edging toward the door.  "Tell me about it in the morning," he said.  "I'm running late.  I have to…get to Buffy's."

The Mayor sighed.  He hated it when Angel lied to him; he knew there was no way in hell his son was heading down to the Village at this hour.  Most likely, he was off to see if he could find that Darla bitch, and though the desire to forbid him from doing so almost ate him alive, he also knew that he'd at least partially won that particular battle, and it might just be better in the long run to let the indiscretion slide.  Marrying Buffy was a far sight more acceptable than a pro skirt like Darla Hoyle, and it wasn't like he expected Angel to just give up on all other women.  He knew it just wasn't in the young man's make-up.

"Get me Wesley then," the Mayor said.  "I'll have him take care of it.  Go…do what you have to do."

Angel brightened at being released from the duty and stepped to the doorway, shouting out to the back of the club.  "Wes!  Get in here!"

It took only a moment for the Englishman to arrive, brow furrowed behind his glasses as he watched the younger Wilkins bolt for freedom.  "Did you need something, sir?" he said.

"Close the door."  He waited for Wesley to do so, eyes contemplative as he perched himself against the edge of the desk.  "You've worked for me for a long time now, haven't you, Wes?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're one of my most trusted employees.  Have I ever told you that?"

"Well, there was the pen, sir.  I took that as a great honor---."

The Mayor cut him off with a wave of his hand.  "I believe it's time I gave you a little more responsibility in the organization.  There's a job I need done, not a big one, I hope, but one that'll help prove your loyalty to the family."

Wesley visibly brightened, straightening his shoulders as he took an eager step forward.  "Whatever you say, Mr. Wilkins.  Just give me the word."

"We had a guest at Heaven tonight.  One I need more information on."

"Oh?  What kind of information?"

The Mayor's eyes were steady.  "I want to know what his business in town is.  You might've seen him.  He's rather…distinctive.  He actually danced with Miss Summers at one point, I believe.  His name's William Rook…"

To be continued in Chapter 11: While the City Sleeps…


	11. While the City Sleeps

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike has discovered just a little more about Buffy's past in Sunnydale, spending the night at her apartment at her request, while the Mayor has asked Wesley to get more information on William Rook…

*************

More than anything, he wanted to get drunk.  

He'd been good about maintaining his composure while his boss was still there, but as soon as the Mayor had left, Wesley had headed straight for the bottle of whiskey he kept hidden in his bottom drawer, pouring out two stiff shots and downing them before he could allow himself to think.

William Rook.

Distinctive appearance, complete with bleached blond hair.  Not his usual get-up, according to Mr. Wilkins, but still him, nonetheless.

Just like Willow's friend, Spike.

Damn it all to hell.

He recognized the name, of course, even if he didn't know the specifics about his history, but he would never have been able to pick him out from a crowd.  Mr. Wilkins, on the other hand, had known him from the moment he'd set foot in the club.

"There's no forgetting _that_ mug," he'd said with a knowing smile.  "Does he really think I'm that stupid?"

It was the same thing Wesley was asking himself about Willow.  Something was going on, something she _had_ to be involved in.  The coincidences were just too numerous for her not to be.  Friends with one of the most notorious droppers in New York history?  What did that make her?  More importantly, what did that mean about the things she'd said to him?

The possibilities made him ache, and not just inside his head.  He _liked_ Willow.  He had actually spent time considering what it would be like to have her around on a more permanent basis.  And now to think that she had just been using him in whatever little scheme she and Rook were hatching cut deeper than anything had in a very long time.

Part of him didn't want to believe it.  She'd seemed so genuine, an innocence about her that begged people to trust her.  Begged _him_ to trust her.  With those wide green eyes, looking up at him in guileless amusement when she'd admitted to liking him, too, not eight hours earlier.  

The memory of her hand on his arm brought an instant heat to his body, his cock hardening just at the potential of what lay in those soft curves, and Wesley berated himself for his weakness.  Sleeping with the enemy, that's what it was called.  Usually leading to a knife in the back.  Well, damn her if she thought she was going to get away with it.  Two could play her little game.  He'd been given a job to do, and damn it if he wasn't going to get it done.  He'd waited too long to get an opportunity like this; a beautiful redhead wasn't going to get in his way now.

A quick glance at his watch told him it was just shy of three o'clock.  Outside the taxi windows, the city slumbered as quietly as it ever could, lights out in the rows upon rows of windows that loomed along the side of the street.  Only the steady glow of red and green from the stoplights cast their illumination over the gray cement, keeping the shadows hidden as his cab sped lonely down the road.

He wasn't sure why he was going, or what exactly he was going to say when she opened the door.  He wasn't even certain she _would_ open the door.  It was the middle of the night, and she was a young girl.  Well, not _that_ young, but certainly young enough to be wary of strange men showing up at her hotel room unannounced.  Except he wasn't strange.  And they had shared more than a moment together.  There had been that lunch, and last night in his office, and tonight after seeing her in Buffy's dressing room.  And that touch…

Wesley groaned, leaning his head back against the seat.  He really, really wanted to be wrong about her.

*************

Slippers had been the smartest thing she had ever come up with, Willow decided as she cinched her robe around her waist.  No swollen feet, and it was easier to do her job when it got busy.  Two big bonuses for flat shoes.

Of course, being busy had meant that she hadn't been able to speak to Spike about the flowers.  She knew he had seen her catch his eye, but he'd never re-emerged from the main room, making the redhead wonder just what it was with her friend and his dislike of front doors.  She had watched the rest of them leave---first Buffy, then the Mayor's date, followed quickly by Xander and Giles.  Both men had seemed distracted, offering only the most vague of explanations---_Spike had danced with Buffy?_---but Giles had reassured her that everything was just jake.  They had a whole wealth of information, he'd said, but nothing that couldn't wait until morning.

"Go home.  Get some proper rest.  We'll see you at breakfast."

Xander's gaze had been sympathetic as well.  "You look bushed," he'd said.  "I keep forgetting you're actually _working_ here.  Giles is right.  Go take a load off.  We'll fill you in on everything tomorrow."

She _was_ tired; on that, they were right.  But Willow slept poorly when she was worried, and right now, she couldn't get the thought of Spike and those daisies---_and just how many had he actually bought for Buffy?_---very far from the foreground of her mind.  

When the knock came at her door, she wasn't actually surprised.  How many times had one or the other of the guys shown up on her doorstep back in California? she thought as she crossed to open it.  It's probably just Spike, drunk off his ass again.

The sight of Wesley on the other side was the last thing she expected, and certainly not in his current state.  Gone were his glasses and his suit coat, leaving his tie loosened, his white shirtsleeves rolled haphazardly partway up his surprisingly well-muscled arms.  A slight flush stained his cheeks, and his hair was erratically mussed, as if he'd spent hours running his fingers through it.

When his gaze crawled over her, Willow became all too aware of the inappropriateness of her dress, her robe exposing the hollow of her throat where her short nightdress was cut out, her pink fuzzy slippers suddenly seeming overtly grotesque on her feet.  She blushed, gathering the lapels of her robe together in one hand to try and draw it closed.  "Hey there," she stammered.  "Not exactly the person I thought it was going to be."

His brows shot up.  "You were expecting someone?"

"Well, no, not exactly, but if I was, it wasn't…"  She blinked, shaking her head as if to clear it.  "Is something wrong?  Are you all right?"

Wesley seemed to deflate at the concern in her voice, a long hand coming up to comb through his hair as his eyes fell to the floor, confirming her suspicions on how it had gotten mussed in the first place.  "I wanted to…talk," he managed, still unable to meet her gaze.  "I assumed…I forget about my own hours sometimes.  My apologies."

She grabbed his arm as he started to turn away, forgetting her false modesty as worry wrinkled her forehead.  "Don't go.  Come inside.  I'll fix you some tea."

He was inside and in the lone chair before he could react, leaving Willow to watch him out of the corner of her eye as she bustled with the small kettle.  It was impossible not to note the complete exhaustion in his posture as his long legs uncharacteristically sprawled out in front of him, or the shadows that darkened his face.  His eyes were almost hollow, as if he hadn't slept in days, and she knew without him having to say a word that whatever was bothering him was eating him alive.

She perched herself on the edge of the bed opposite him, nervously crossing her ankles as she waited for him to speak.  A half-smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he focused on her feet.

"I had thought they were kidding," he mused quietly.

"Huh?  Who?  About what?"

He pointed at her slippers.  "A few of the waiters commented that they saw you in those," he said.  "I assumed they were just mistaken."

Willow's blush was fast and furious, and she hastily lifted her feet, rearranging her position so that they were tucked underneath her, not realizing that as she did so, her robe rode up on her legs so that her knees and lower thighs were now even more exposed.  "Is that what this is about?" she rushed.  "I'm so sorry.  I thought it wouldn't make a difference if the customers didn't pipe on, but my feet hurt so badly last night, and I was so desperate not to lose---."

"It's all right."  He cut her off with a wave of his hand.  "It's certainly not a problem.  I told you.  You're hitting on all eight at the job.  _So_ much better than the last girl.  I didn't come here to scold you about your choice of footwear."

"Why…_did_ you come here then?"

Her fingers played with the belt of her robe, rolling it up before letting it loose again.  She didn't get what this was about.  Something was obviously bothering him, and yet the way he was looking at her, like she was both dangerous and delectable all at the same time, was so different than how he had been in his office.  There, his interest had still been apparent, but in a guarded, almost officious kind of way.  Now, it was as if he didn't care what she saw, letting down a mask to regard her in a brutal honesty that was both disconcerting and exciting.

And why she could read him like this, Willow had no idea.  Though she had always thought her relationship with Oz had been great, it seemed veritably tame compared to the flush being around Wesley brought to her, the way his eyes were an open book just waiting to be devoured.  Something had shifted in the last twenty-four hours between them, but what exactly it was, she was unsure.

Maybe it's the drinking, she thought.  She had smelled the scent of whiskey on his breath when she'd pulled him into the room; there was no mistaking that aroma after all the time she'd spent with Spike.  But he was far from drunk, his gait was steady.  And the way he was looking at her now convinced her that he was more than in control of his faculties.  More like, he wanted to be in control of _her_ faculties.

The shrill whistle of the kettle made her jump, pulling her to her feet and looking away from him for the first time since he'd come into the room.  "How do you take it?" she asked, fumbling with the cups.  "Sweet?  Black?  What?"

When he didn't answer right away, Willow glanced back to see Wesley still watching her, eyes grave, mouth set.  "How 'bout we go for good old milky?" she suggested when it became obvious he wasn't going to answer her.  "That's the way Giles takes it.  It seems to be a favorite."

"You never said how you came to know this…Giles.  And Spike, right?  That was the other…Brit in the mix, I believe you said?"  His tone was neutral, but his eyes were not, and she felt a questioning tickle begin somewhere in the back of her brain.

Her gaze narrowed imperceptibly.  He was fishing.  For the first time since she'd met him, Wesley seemed to be deliberately looking for information that wasn't something she could readily share.  Time to tread carefully.  "I met Giles when I was in school out in California," she said carefully.  "He was kind of a…mentor.  And Spike just came as part of the package."  At his quizzical look, she clarified, "They're business partners."

"What kind of business?"

Now she was certain, and her heart sank.  All that potential, gone to waste.  Spike had been right.  Fun could be had, but she had let herself forget who exactly Wesley worked for, that he was essentially one of the enemy.  And the time for games was over.

"Journalism.  They're writing partners for a magazine on the West Coast."  It was the first time here in New York she'd had to use the standard cover story that the two men utilized, and her skin crawled as the lie slipped so easily from her lips.  Years of practice made it routine, but having to do so with Wes was far from simple.  Silently, she cursed herself for having fallen for him so hard.  Stupid charming bad guy, she ranted.  Why is it I can't seem to connect with someone on _my_ side for a change?

She offered him the cup of tea and resumed her seat on the bed, sitting farther away from him than before, watching as he sipped cautiously at the hot liquid.  "You didn't come all the way over here to ask me about my friends, though," Willow said, striving for normal.

His lips pursed to gently blow away the steam that wafted from his mug, his blue eyes lowered as he appeared to be lost in thought.  "Do you ever…" he started, and then stopped, a frown overtaking his face.

"Do I ever…what?" she prompted.

More thought.  More contemplation.  Then, he raised his head, and she saw the resignation buried within the blue.  "My employer is not a very nice man," Wesley said.  "Did you know that when you applied for your position?"

"You…already warned me about Angel," she said.  OK, this was different.  The sudden change of topic seemed to bring a melancholy to his voice that hadn't been there before, his shoulders slumping.  She didn't get it.

Wesley shook his head.  "I was referring to Mr. Wilkins, Senior, actually," he said.  "He's been investigated by the police on numerous occasions, but they have yet to pin anything of consequence on him"

"And you're telling me this because…?"

"You don't seem surprised by what I'm saying."

Willow smiled.  "I'm not stupid, Wesley.  And I'm not a little girl.  But, I work for Heaven, and that's a legitimate operation, isn't it?"

He seemed genuinely taken aback by her query, and straightened in his seat.  "Yes, of course, it is."

"So, I'm going to be quiz girl and ask again.  Why are you telling me all this?"

His rising took her by surprise, and she startled backwards, eyes wide as he set down his cup and crossed to sit at her side.  The mattress shifted slightly under his weight, and she had to roll her hips to keep from pressing into him, her nostrils suddenly overwhelmed with his very masculine scent.

"If I told you I didn't consider Heaven to be very safe for you, would you quit?"

The sharpest of worries sliced into her, the sudden belief that she had been found out and this was his way of getting her off the hook before she got reeled in overwhelming Willow until the room began to spin around her.  Not safe, he'd said.  And all this talk about the Mayor…

No no no, she intoned, it can't be that.  I haven't done anything wrong.  I haven't given him any clues…have I?  She replayed everything she had said to him---everything she could remember, at least---and so, OK, maybe she wasn't at her most graceful when he was around, but as far as she could tell, she'd not slipped.  There hadn't been any obvious clues.  She shouldn't be in any danger.

"Why…how…I'm not…"  None of her questions seemed to be coming out straight, and Willow swallowed, calming her racing nerves.  _Buck up_, she could hear Spike saying.  _Don't let the wanker get to you_.

"Am I in danger?" she finally managed, sneaking a look at him for the first time since he sat down.

"You don't have to be."  Wesley took her hand in his, steadying the tremor that caused her skin to vibrate.  "I can protect you, but only if you come clean with me."

"What's…there…to come clean about?"  

He seemed to be weighing his answer, and she saw the kindness return to his eyes, the same shade of compassion that he'd worn every other time she'd seen him.  "Mr. Wilkins made Spike tonight," he said softly.  "Now, the way I see it, either you're on the square with me and you _don't _know that Rook's a dropper for the Conti family, or you're in with him on whatever he's got going down.  Either way, Willow, you're in over your head."

Giles had to pick _tonight_ to not hang around for a meeting, she thought wildly, even as she struggled to keep her face as blank as possible.  Spike gets fingered by the mark the same night he decided to romance the mobster's future daughter-in-law, and one of the family's most trusted employees was now offering her asylum if she sold out her friends.  Talk about non-fortuitous timing.

"What was the plan, Wesley?"  Slowly, Willow extracted her fingers from his, rising to her feet to get as much distance between them as possible.  Calm.  She had to stay calm.  And god, Spike and Giles were going to kill her if she messed this up by getting dead.  "Did you think you'd come over here, offer me a deal, and if I didn't take it up, I'd end up in a wooden kimono by morning?"  She leaned against the desk, her hand nonchalantly resting on the drawer behind her.

His confusion seemed genuine.  "No."  He held up his hands, arms outstretched so that she could see him plainly.  "I'm not carrying.  I don't even have my pen on me, in case you haven't noticed."

"So, your plan was to come in here and go all John Wayne on me?  Protect the girl because she can't protect herself?"  She was getting angry now, her voice rising.  "Why would you do that?  Why would you think you _could_ do that?"  Her fingers were curled around the handle, tightening to pull it out just enough so that she could reach her weapon inside.  She hated it, but for once, she was glad that Spike and Giles had insisted she keep one around.

"Because I like you, Willow.  Because I couldn't bear to see you get hurt."

The simplicity of his response froze her reach, and she stared at him, caught in the earnestness of his gaze.  Though her heart was thumping in her chest, accelerating all the rhythms in her body, the air around her seemed frozen in time, and she just stood there motionless.  He was serious.  Not that it made a lick of difference in the long run, but…he was serious.

"I think you should go now."  So faint.  Her lips barely moved.

Wesley stood, taking a single step forward, but hesitated when she stiffened at his approach.  "Willow…please…hear me out…"

She turned her head so that she wouldn't have to see the plea in his eyes.  "Spike's due to come around any time now," she lied.  "You should blow before he shows, or…he might get mad."  How was she ever going to explain this to the guys?  That she'd had him in her room, knowing as much as he did, and that she'd let him just walk away?  Maybe she could make it look like a struggle or something…

His hand cupping her cheek took her by surprise, and Willow jerked her head back to see him standing directly in front of her, his other hand coming up to the other side.  Before she could react, his mouth had lowered to hers, rooting her in a heated sweep.

The smell…and the taste…and _oh god he's kissing me_…all of it intensified into a swirl of color cascading behind her lids as they fluttered closed.  It took only seconds for her to respond, a tiny whimper escaping her throat as her bottom rested against the edge of the desk for support, her hands coming up to press against his chest.  She could feel the pounding of his heart beneath her fingers, the heat of his skin searing through the fabric, and realized his nerves were skittering as wildly as hers, that he wanted this just as badly as she did.  

The knowledge only heightened her arousal, and Willow's lips parted, allowing his tongue to enter, a tender exploration that charged with more, and more, and more.  The power in his hands, however, contradicted the restraint he was enforcing in his caress, and she felt the sudden irrational urge to throw her arms around his neck and pull him closer, to drive him to deepen the embrace.

All too soon, it ended, his mouth sliding from hers to brush across her brow.  "Promise me you'll be careful," he murmured against her skin before pulling away.

He was doing what she'd asked---leaving, _oh damn he's actually leaving_---and a wave of relief mingling with disappointment turned her muscles into molasses as she found herself unable to move from her position at the desk.  "What're you going to do?" Willow asked.  It was as close to a confession he was going to get from her, and they both knew it.

Ducking his head, Wesley pulled open the door, ducking his head to hide his rueful smile from her gaze.  "Good night, Willow," he said, effectively evading her query, and exited the room.

*************

He sagged as soon as the door separated them, leaning against the wall as he wiped tiredly at his eyes.  He had no idea what exactly had happened in there; his original intent had been to be firm with her, to demand she tell him the truth or face the consequences.  But as soon as Willow had opened her mouth---hell, as soon as she'd opened the damn door---Wesley had known that he couldn't do it.  Seeing her in those awful fuzzy slippers, the obvious concern for him in her voice…all his resolve had disappeared on gossamer wings, leaving him at her mercy as she'd pulled him in, and not just into her room.

Some of it had returned in the face of her apparent lies, and Wes had tried again to seduce the truth from her.  That time, though, he'd lasted even less, unable to let go of the belief that there could be a way to get her out of the mess entirely.  It wasn't in her to be involved in anything as criminal as Rook had purported to be, he was sure of it.  She just lacked the resources to extract herself from her associations.

Thus, the offer.  He could most certainly do it; protecting her would be the simplest thing he'd undertaken in ages.  What he hadn't accounted for was Willow's independent streak blazing brightly, refusing to be sheltered even though she could very well end up getting seriously hurt.  Kissing her had almost been reflex; the desire he'd felt for her had been mounting exponentially all day and seeing her so strong, so _vibrant_, had made the caress unavoidable.

He didn't regret it.

He only regretted that he couldn't do more for her.

In less than twenty-four hours, Richard Wilkins was going to demand to know what he'd learned about William Rook.  And Wesley was going to have no choice but to tell him.

*************

She had been right.  She couldn't sleep.  Even with the weight of his arm around her waist, the smooth feel of his chest against her back as Spike held her close, Buffy couldn't stop the demons of the past from sinking their teeth into her jugular, forcing her to stay awake and confront them in spite of the reassuring presence of the man upon whom she was coming to rely.

So, when the clock had ticked over to three-fifteen---_quarter after twelve in California_---Buffy had carefully lifted his arm from her body just enough to slide out of the bed, setting it back down with a feather kiss against the sheet.  She grabbed her robe and pulled it tight around her, padding softly to the outer room.  

And now she sat on the fire escape, the metal grille pressing its lines into the back of her thighs as her legs dangled over the side, the photo album she'd snatched before climbing out the window discarded somewhere to her left, staring up into the night sky.

Logic told her that it shouldn't hurt, but ever since Spike had touched her scar, Buffy had been feeling phantom pains in her side, sending her back to the Sunnydale hospital as if she'd never left its sterilized walls.  

_Angel, hovering at her side, refusing to let her turn away from him…_

_The hospital staff, and their whispering outside her door, as if they thought she couldn't hear them talking about her…accusing her…_

_The police and their unending questions, repeated and repeated, like she was going to change her answers if they just asked them enough times…_

Thoughts of the hospital inevitably led her to the following funerals, and it was then that the tears started to fall.  Buffy lowered her head, motionless as the drops ran slowly down her nose to drip onto her robe, seeping in ever-spreading circles until they joined into one large glob, adhering the fabric to her leg.  It shouldn't still hurt after three years, she believed.  She didn't know why even the memories could still roil her up so.  It just wasn't fair.

The soft metallic shick behind her jolted her head up, swiveling to see Spike lighting the cigarette that dangled from his mouth.  He was sitting on the inside of the windowsill, leaning against the frame, and she wiped hurriedly at her face before his eyes could lift to meet hers.

"I didn't want to wake you," she said.

"You didn't," he replied.  "Blame it on the call of nicotine."  He exhaled silently, dropping the ash to the fire escape, and watched it fall through the iron mesh in a fine silt to the ground.  "And smokin' in the window's kind of turned into a habit of mine."

She looked at him for a moment, savoring the planes of his face, before sliding down his pale length.  He hadn't bothered to dress before coming out to her, the angular jut of his hip carved in sinewy splendor where he sat.  Unbidden, her skin warmed, but it was more than just a visceral response to his beauty.  It was just knowing that he was there, a feeling of security that wrapped around her in a way she hadn't felt since moving to New York.  Not even with Angel, she realized.  And he was supposed to be the one.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked.

Spike shrugged.  "Cold never seems to bother me."

Buffy turned back to face the silent street.  "I'm beginning to think that nothing bothers you."

"Seein' you cry does."

She felt the vibrations in the metal beneath her bottom as he stepped out onto the fire escape, softly reverberating as he approached.  The red arc of his cigarette appeared over her head to descend to the concrete below, and Buffy watched it fall as he sat down behind her, pale legs straddling either side of hers.  Without even thinking, she leaned back into his chest, and relished his arm slipping around her waist to anchor her.

"I'm fine," she murmured.

"You're always sayin' that," Spike replied.  "And yet, why am I not believing it?"

She chuckled.  "You're a very stubborn man, you know that?"  
"Fancy words comin' from the proverbial kettle, pet."

They sat in silence, each lost in their own musings, the slightest of breezes tickling the hair on Spike's arms as he held her close.  When the break came, it didn't really surprise Buffy.  In the short time she'd known him, one thing she was fairly certain of was his inability to keep quiet for any stretch of time.

"I saw my mum die, you know."

Her initial reaction was to stiffen in his arms, fear coursing through her veins, but the combination of his gentle, almost faraway, tone, and the slow circle of his thumb along her side quickly eased the tension from her limbs.  "Spike…you don't---."

"She was sick."  He continued as if she'd never spoken.  "Had been for a long time.  I did what I could, but I was only ten.  In the end, all I could do was read to her and hold her hand."

"I'm sorry."

"Not a whole lot could've been done about that, really.  Not that I knew that at the time.  And when I got shipped off to New York so that friends of the family could raise me, it didn't do much for keeping me on the sunny side of the street."

In spite of the subject matter, she couldn't help the smile that rose to her lips.  "Why am I not surprised to hear you were a hellion?" she said.  "I can just imagine a little Spikey getting in dutch all the time."

"You don't know the half of it," he murmured.  His cheek rested against her hair, and she could hear his inhalations as he drank in her scent.  "Spent a long time in a very dark place and then when I finally managed to get out of it, I thought leavin' them all behind was goin' to eat me alive.  They were the only family I'd known for a long time and turning my back on 'em…never thought I could've.  And certainly never thought I'd find another."  His free hand came down and began abstractly stroking her thigh, sending warm shivers through her pelvis that made her wish it was possible to just melt into his skin.

"But you did," she said unnecessarily.

"In the last place I ever expected it," he agreed.  "They're the only reason I came back to the city.  All of this…I did it for them."

Buffy's hand came down, trapping his as she wound her fingers through his.  "I'm glad you did," she said.  

His lips grazed the side of her neck.  "Me, too."

She swallowed, the lump in her throat the last of her resolve to stay quiet on the subject.  "My mom died in a fire," she said quietly.  "At the gallery she owned.  My sister, too.  I was the only one who survived."

Spike didn't say a word, just tightened his grip, his nose nuzzling the curve of her shoulder.

"Angel got me out of there.  He'd been trying to get me to try New York and then…there really wasn't any reason for me to stay any more.  I kind of inherited a new family here, too.  Like you did."

Only then did he pull away, and she felt the heat rise from his body as his anger boiled.  "He's not your family," he growled.  "Don't be fooling yourself into thinkin' he is."

"Spike…please, don't do this again."

Roughly, he grabbed her left hand and held it up flat against the iron mesh, locking it in place by her wrist.  "Where's the ring, then, luv?" he demanded.  "A rock like that, you should be wearing it every chance you get.  Except, the only time I've ever seen it on your finger is when you're singing.  When _he_ can see you.  Why's that?"

"It's…valuable.  I don't want to risk---."

"Bullshit."

She tried again.  "It's actually not that comfortable.  It cuts---."

"You're makin' excuses, Buffy.  Tell me the truth.  What happened to not lying to me about the important things?"

Silence.  A long silence.  The far-off honking of a car horn filtered through the night air.

"You know I waited a week before telling him yes?" Buffy finally said softly.  "That's what that night with you was supposed to be about.  Me and a last fling before I committed to Angel.  Probably one of the hardest things I've ever done."

"So why'd you do it?"

"Because I needed to."  As low as her voice was, there was no mistaking the plea in her tone.  "There's so much you don't understand, Spike."

"I think I understand plenty."

"In three days?"  She turned in his embrace, her weight shifting as she lifted her legs from where they dangled to curl them under her, eyes shining beneath the moon as she looked up at him.  "I've got things in my refrigerator that have been around longer than you have, Spike.  How can you even begin to think you understand me or what I'm going through?"

His hand came up and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen against her cheek.  "Because I've been there," he said quietly, no remonstrations in his voice.  "I've done that.  All this stuff you're running from…you can't hide from it.  I learned that one the hard way.  Sooner or later, it's goin' to come back and bite you in the ass.  But you don't have to do it alone.  Not while I'm here.  I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, to help you out.  Understand?"

"Why?"

The corner of his mouth lifted.  "Because I'm mad about you, you silly bint," he said.  He leaned in, brushing his lips over hers.

She shuddered at the caress, and leaned into his chest when he pulled away.  There it was again, that sense of safety cloaking her in velvet, almost daring the dark things of the night to come up and try their best.  Here, in his arms, she had no doubt they would lose, that together---her and Spike---they could beat them back.

A lethargy she hadn't felt since falling asleep in his arms that first night crept over her muscles, and she sighed.  "You make it very hard to stay mad at you," she breathed, a stray hand dancing over his thigh.

"Come back to bed," Spike said.  He rose to his feet, strong hands tugging at hers to entice her to join him.

She gave in to his pull, following him through the window and slipping in beside him when he slid back under the blankets.  The demons were still there, but tucked away for the night, banished from her thoughts by the strength of Spike's arms around her, the force of his feelings, the knowledge that he wasn't going to let her face them alone.  It was more than Angel had ever promised, and the irony of that did not escape Buffy.  

The sigh of contentment escaped her as she burrowed into her pillow, smiling when Spike growled in response, drawing her back into him.  Her lids drifted closed.

A girl could get used to this.

*************

Giles yawned as he hurried toward the door of the hotel, rubbing tiredly at his face.  He'd been longer at Xander's than he'd planned, collating what they'd discovered, formulating new plans of attack, going over questions they would pose to Spike when they saw him in the morning.  He probably should've spent the night there instead of venturing back to his own room, but the prospect of having to listen to the younger man's snoring all night held little appeal.

The shadow of the car on the street escaped his attention until he was almost there, stopping him only when the young man emerged from the back seat.

"Mr. Giles!" he called out, waiting until the Englishman had turned to look at him.  ""Kind of a late night for you, isn't it?  Have we been out painting the town red?"

Giles frowned, his hand slipping into his pocket and fingering his gun.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "Do I know you?"

The young man smiled, and moved closer, stepping into the streetlight to reveal his dark hair, his tailored suit.  "We've only spoken on the phone," he said, and extended his hand.  "I'm Lindsey McDonald.  From Wolfram and---."

He never got to finish the name.  Giles crossed the distance between them, grabbing his hand and throwing him against the car, twisting his arm back to pin him against the cold metal.  "You miserable son of a bitch," he growled.  "How dare you---."

The unmistakable click of a safety being removed from a gun cut him off, followed immediately by the hard steel pressing into the back of his skull.  "I suggest you let him go," came the melodious voice from behind him.

Bloody hell, Giles thought, and slowly released his grip, lifting his hands away from his body.  Before him, Lindsey slithered away from the car, stepping away to look back with an amused grin.

"It's all right, Mr. Trick," he said to whoever was behind Giles.  "I think he'll be just a little more cooperative now."  He waited until his partner, a dapperly dressed black man with a neat mustache, had joined him at his side, the gun in his elegant hand aimed dangerously for Giles' heart.  "I merely wanted to have a few words," he continued.  "There really was no need to get physical."

"What do you want?" Giles growled.

"The Mayor is still alive."

"Yes.  We're…working on that."

"I'm afraid my client's not very pleased, Mr. Giles.  I've just come from a meeting, and there has been a…change to your instructions."

His eyes narrowed behind his glasses.  "What kind of change?

"A deadline kind of change."  Lindsey smiled.  "If the Mayor isn't dead in twenty-four hours, my firm will have no choice but to go ahead with our warning.  You, and Mr. Rook, and Miss Rosenberg will be in the hands of the authorities by the following morning if you don't succeed in killing the Mayor by this time tomorrow."

To be continued Chapter 12:  Cat and Mouse…


	12. Cat and Mouse

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike is spending the night at Buffy's, learning more about her past and comforting her; Wesley has gone to Willow and offered his protection to her for telling him about Spike, which she has turned down; and Giles has been approached by Lindsey and given a twenty-four deadline to kill the Mayor…

*************

She picked up on the first ring.  "Hello?"  Willow's voice was wary but alert, and Giles immediately thrust aside his worry about waking her.

"I need you to get over here as quickly as possible," he said.  He was still working on pulling his coat off, tucking the phone into his shoulder as he moved around.  "Someone's just a lit a fire under us."

"What?  How'd you---?  What's going on?"

He began sifting through the file folders that were strewn over his still-made bed, relaying the new instruction from Lindsey as he worked.  When he'd finished, he waited for Willow's typically scatty response---something along the lines of anxiety about the approaching apocalypse would've been appropriate, he thought---but was met instead with a prolonged silence.  "Willow?" Giles prompted.  "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you."

"You don't seem particularly surprised by it."

Another pause.  "Let's just say…it's been a night of surprises."  

Her sigh came through the phone line with a wispy caress, and Giles stopped in his tracks, concern immediately warming his skin.  His query, "What's happened?", shot out before he could curb the impulse and he automatically scowled at his own misplaced zeal.  Young enough to be your daughter, he reminded himself.  Get a grip, old man.

"I'll give you the scoop on everything when I get over there," she said.  "I assume…you're bringing the guys in to plan our next move?"

"That's the plan.  I rang you first because I thought you'd be sleeping."  He paused.  He wasn't keen on having to wait to find out what was plaguing her so, but his earlier worry regarding her rest resurfaced.  "Why _aren't_ you sleeping?"

"I had a…visitor.  But he's gone now."

Her recalcitrance to say her guest's name did nothing to appease Giles' nerves.  "Who was it?"  A long silence.  He tried again.  "Was it Wesley?"

"He's part of the not-so-good news I've got to share," she said.  "He came to tell me…to warn me…" Yet another sigh, and he was going to throttle her for being so slow in telling.  "The Mayor fingered Spike tonight," she finally said, and her voice was barely above a whisper, aching and miserable as she uttered the words.

"Oh, dear Lord."

"And Allah, and Buddha, and every other religious icon you can throw in there, Giles.  And now that those lawyers are giving us a deadline---."

"Why would he tell you this?"

"He wanted me to rat Spike out."  He heard her sharp intake of breath, and when she spoke again, there was a harsh urgency to her tone that hadn't been there before.  "You know I didn't, right?  I wouldn't---."

"I know, I know."  Taking off his glasses and tossing them onto the bed, Giles rubbed at his eyes as he contemplated this new information.  "Get over here," he said, resigned.  "I'll call Spike and Xander.  We'll sort something out.  We have to."

*************

Wesley had almost begun to hope that he'd guessed wrong, when he saw the cab pull up in front of the hotel and Willow immediately come rushing outside to climb inside it.  For the briefest of moments, the urge to run forward and pull her out, to stop her from doing what he knew she was, coursed through him, even prompting him as far as to step from the shadows of the alley in which he'd waited since leaving her room.  He stopped on the sidewalk, though, pressing himself into the cold wall of the building behind him to remain hidden from her view, and watched as the cab sped off down the darkened street.

Off to warn Spike, he knew.  Which meant by association that she would be speaking with Giles as well.  Most likely that Xander Harris also fell into the mix somewhere, though his role remained murky at best.

But it was Rook that consumed Wesley's thoughts at the moment.  Rook and Willow.  Or rather, Willow and Rook.

It had to be a hit.  That's what Rook did.  That's what he'd been groomed to do since joining the Conti family as a child.  Using Willow and Xander as methods of scoping out the mark.

But just who was he intending to kill?

Someone at Heaven.  Had to be.  He was using too much manpower at one location for it not to be someone there.

Xander, spending time with Angel.  Having dinner with the Mayor and Faith, Angel and Buffy.

Willow, beautiful brainy Willow, working the club as a mere coat check girl.  Getting to know _him_.  Chatting with the other employees.

Even Spike, hanging out two nights in a row.  Watching the room and the show from a front row table…

The common denominator made Wesley's breath catch, his eyes widening as his head swiveled to stare in the direction Willow's long-gone cab.  How could she? he thought.  After everything he'd considered, after the offer he'd made her, after being so _certain_ that her culpability in whatever this mess was, was minor…

His blood chilled.  She'd been working the angle even tonight.  Even as she had been flirting with him in his office, _touching_ him, driving him mad with want, Willow had been gathering information to take back to William Rook, giving him the means to do what it was he was so good at.  Hell, Wes had even walked in on her doing it.

Finding out about Buffy Summers.

The common denominator.

Damn it all to hell.

*************

Xander was already there when she came rushing in, not even bothering to knock.  Her eyes quickly scanned the cluttered room, and she dropped her own stack of folders onto the pile on the bed.  "Where's Spike?" Willow asked.

Xander didn't respond, only sliding his gaze to the chair where Giles sat, replacing the receiver back into its cradle.  Dread sank into the redhead's stomach, but she voiced the question again to the Englishman anyway.  "Where's Spike?"

"Nowhere to be found," he replied, his tone hard.  There was a pause, and then he abruptly picked up the pencil from next to him and snapped it brutally in half, throwing the two pieces at the wall before him.

Willow jumped.  "He's…not at the hotel?"

"Not at the hotel, not at his usual haunts, not at the police station.  Nowhere."  He rose and began pacing the length of his room, every muscle in his lean body taut, waiting to be sprung.  "For his sake, he better be at the fucking morgue, or I swear I'm going to kill him myself," Giles finished under his breath.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Xander said, keeping his tone light.  "The night's early for Spike.  I'm sure there's a bar or three who'd still serve him at this hour.  Shoot, he could be at his new girlfriend's, for all we know---."

"What did you say?"  Willow's head turned to her friend, the possibility he was suggesting leadening her even further.

"You know.  That new dame he's so dizzy for.  He blew out of Heaven pretty early.  Could be he had a hot date or something."

Flashes of Buffy and Angel leaving the club, separately, scattered through her head, and she sighed, picking up one of her folders even as she crossed to the desk.  "I think I know where's he at," she said as she settled herself in the chair.  Opening the file, her eyes scanned the text until she found the number she was looking for, ignoring the curious stares of the men behind her.

"How do you know?  Where is he?" Giles asked.

"Another of those surprises I was telling you about," she muttered as she picked up the phone.

*************

It came from far away, a clarion call drifting across the ether, and Buffy groaned as she lifted her head to stare at the phone jangling near her ear.  A quick glance at the clock told her she'd only been asleep for less than an hour, and she sighed as she began to reach for the receiver.

"Leave it," Spike growled from behind her, his arm tightening around her waist to pull her back into his warm body.

She glanced back.  His eyes were still closed, his lashes dark smudges against his cheek, and his bottom lip jutted out in a pout.  A smile curved her lips.  He looked absolutely adorable, years shorn off his face by the petulance of interrupted sleep.  "I can't," she said softly.  "It could be important."  She didn't mention the name, but the frown that immediately overtook his features told her that Spike knew she thought it was Angel.  No one else would call her at this hour.

"Hello?" Buffy said when she picked up the phone.

There was a breathy pause, and then a woman's voice came over the line.  "Um…can I speak to Spike, please?"

Immediately, Buffy tensed, her muscles going rigid, and she sat up, away from her lover's embrace.  The voice was familiar, but she couldn't place it.  More importantly, whoever it was knew that Spike was there.  Not good, her mind railed.  Not good at all.  Who could know?  _Why_ would anyone know?  

"I don't know what you're talking about," Buffy said stiffly.  She ignored the curious lift of his head next to her, choosing instead to stare straight ahead.  Better to get this person off the phone and deal with him herself, she felt.  "I'm afraid you've---."

"I _know_ he's there.  Please.  Tell him…tell him Red's on the phone.  I really need to speak with him."

More familiarity, and an unshakeable certainty about Spike's presence.  Carefully, her heart beating in her throat, Buffy pulled the phone away from her ear and handed it out to the blond.  "It's for you," she said, willing the tremor away from her voice so that she could appear calm at all costs.  "Someone named Red."

He changed right before her eyes.  Recognition dawned within the blue, sinking Buffy's stomach even further, and a steel hardened his jaw as he sat up, carefully taking the receiver from her hand.  "How the hell did you---?" he started to say into the line, only to be cut off by whoever this Red person was.

She didn't even hear most of what was said---not that he said that much---and instead watched his face grow darker and darker, a lean hand coming up to run through his hair, mussing it even further.  "Shit," she heard him mutter once, but by that time his head was bowed, his eyes closed, as this Red said whatever it was she needed to say.

He couldn't be married; she hadn't sounded like an angry wife finding out her husband's infidelity.  Or maybe he was, and this was such a regular occurrence that Red was used to it by now.  Oh god, Buffy thought.  Not only have I thrown caution to the wind for a relative stranger---_not a stranger_, a tiny voice whispered, _Spike_---but I've done it for a _married_ stranger as well.  Like her whole life didn't mean anything.  Like she had the luxury to risk everything she had been working toward for the past three years like she was the Queen of Sheba or something.  

Oh god, what have I done?

She couldn't even meet his eyes when he handed her back the phone, feeling him rise from the bed as she replaced the receiver back in its cradle.  Cold settled around her, joining the ice that already dwelled inside, and she pulled her knees up, hugging them to her chest as she heard him fumble with his pants.

"Don't let the door hit you on your way out," Buffy said frostily.  No way was she going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he'd gotten to her.  Bastard didn't deserve it.

Though there was a hesitation to his movements, Spike continued to dress, and she could feel his eyes boring into her.  "It's not what you think," he said.

"Oh?  So you're a mindreader as well as a cheater?  Good to know.  Of course, it would've been nice to know before---."

His hand shot out, grabbing her chin to force her eyes upward.  "I'm not married," Spike said grimly.  His eyes were stormy, searching hers, obviously unhappy about what he was finding.  "Red's a business partner.  Something's come up I have to take care of straight away.  I hate havin' to go like this.  You need to know that."

She wanted to believe him.  She wanted all the wonderful words he'd whispered to her as they'd laid together to be true.  But she also had a heart to protect.  And he was already proving far too dangerous and unpredictable for her to just give in to him so easily.

"You tell all your business associates about your affairs?" she quizzed.

"No."  He let her go then, stepping back to sit on the edge of the bed to put on his socks.  "Red's just a helluva lot smarter than I'll ever be.  Somehow, she piped on about me and you."

"And she crooks her little finger and you just go running?"

"I told you, it's bloody well important!"  He exploded, jumping from the bed to begin prowling around the room.  "The whole reason I even agreed to come to this godforsaken place again is about to explode in my face if I don't get out there and do something about it right now.  And the last thing I need is for you to be second-guessing me, pet.  I've been straight with you.  I'm.  Not.  Married.  The only dame I want anything to do with at the moment is sittin' right in front of me, staring at me like I've grown a third head, and I'd like nothing more than to shag you senseless to prove you're wrong about me, but I can't.  I have to go do this.  You're goin' to have to trust me on that."

Buffy bit her lip, watching as he grabbed his shoes.  "Are you coming back?" she heard herself asking.  Way to go for being strong, she admonished herself.

He softened slightly at her question.  "As soon as I can make it," he promised.  "I want you to do me a favor, though.  I want you to stay put for the day.  Call in sick or something to get out of singing tonight.  When this is all done and over with, I need to be able to find you without having to comb through every corner of this soddin' city to do it.  I'll explain everything then."

He didn't wait for her to answer, just swooped in, cupped the back of her head with one large hand, and drew her lips to his in a hard, searing kiss.  She was panting when he pulled away, eyes luminous.  She was a fool.  She was going to believe him.  For now.

"Be fast," she said.  "I'd rather not have to call in to work."  Too hard to explain it to Angel, she added silently, and hoped that he would understand.

"I'll be back yesterday," he vowed, and swooped back down in for another kiss, devouring and swallowing her down as if it was going to be their last.

She was still breathless when he walked out the door.

*************

Two for two, Wesley thought grimly as he saw the familiar bleached head emerge from Buffy's apartment building.  "Stop the car," he told the driver, and held his breath as the taxi eased to the curb, allowing him to watch from a distance as Spike headed for a black DeSoto parked down the street.

Alarm that he was too late to help the chanteuse curled his fingers around the door handle, waiting for the sidewalk to clear before making a break for her apartment, when he saw a familiar blonde figure step out onto a fire escape overhead.  He let out his breath in a long sigh.

Buffy.  She was still alive.  There was still time.

"You want me to stick around?" the driver said, oblivious to his fare's tension.

"No, that won't be necessary."  Reaching into his wallet, Wesley extracted a few bills without even looking at the meter and handed them over, his eyes never leaving Spike as he pulled away with a low roar.

His own cab was soon following, and Wes looked up to see Buffy watching in the direction Rook had gone, a pensive sadness softening her face in the waning moonlight.  She wasn't going to like what he was going to tell her, but at least she was going to be alive to appreciate it, he thought cheerlessly, stepping toward the front of the building.

Now if he could just figure out how to deal with Willow…

*************

"What I don't understand," Giles was saying, "is why you would risk everything---our futures, your _life_---on this…this…"  His lips pursed, his face red as he struggled to find a word that encapsulated his anger towards the new woman in Spike's life.

"…absolutely amazing woman," the blond finished for him.  He took a deep drag on his cigarette, turning his head to stare out at the burgeoning orange and crimson sky, the faintest of yellows tingeing the heavens as the sun began to rise.  "And if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, Ripper.  It started before I knew who she was, and what it means now has absolutely nothin' to do with the job at hand."

Xander shook his head from his seat on the bed.  "I still can't believe you bagged the torcher," he said.  "You are the luckiest bastard I know."  At Giles' stern look, he blushed.  "And the stupidest," he hastened to add, affecting a firmer set of his mouth.  "You should've been on the square with us, Spike.  We're your partners in this."

"And your friends," Willow chimed in.  "Don't forget friends."

"What happened to all those sentiments you expressed in California?" Giles asked.  "For all we know, Miss Summers will go to the Mayor as soon as she knows about you---."

"She doesn't know what I do," Spike bit out.  "And she wouldn't do that, anyway.  She understands about loyalty."

"Which is why, of course, she's cheating on her fiancé in order to be with you," the other Englishman added dryly.

"Can we just drop this?"  Throwing his cigarette to the ground outside, Spike rose from the windowsill and faced off with the group.  "All right, maybe I should've come clean a little sooner about me and Buffy.  But I didn't.  But right now, who I'm seein' is the least of our worries.  Not with those shysters breathing down our necks and the Mayor on to who I am.  Can we please get back to the bloody issue here and start organizing how we're goin' to do this?"

He was right and they all knew it.  Time was ticking away, and with the sun already dawning on their last twenty hours before Wolfram and Hart played their ace in the hole, there was little room for squabbling.

Willow flushed as she looked down helplessly at the file on her lap.  "We still don't have a handle on the Mayor's schedule," she said.  "It's too erratic for us to plan something so close---."

"We don't need his schedule," Spike interrupted.  "I've already sussed how I'm goin' to get to him."

"Really?  And you were going to share this with us…when?" Giles asked.  "Before your midnight assignation with Miss Summers, or post-copulation while the pair of you were basking---."

"Giles!"  All the men jumped at the harshness of Willow's voice, turning their heads to look at her.  Twin spots of color were high on her cheeks, her nostrils flaring.  "I don't feel like going to the hoosegow any time soon here, so if you could _please_ stick to the subject without sounding like my Uncle Morrie when he gets drunk at Passover, I would greatly appreciate it."  She waited, staring him down, until he'd ducked his eyes, and then continued in just as tight a voice.  "Spike messed up.  We get that.  But he's not going to be the only one who loses out here when we get this job done, just remember that."

While they'd waited for Spike, she'd filled him and Xander in on what exactly had happened between her and Wesley, even going so far as to tell them about the kiss.  The fact that she was getting burned by losing what could've been a great relationship wasn't lost on them, and she just wanted them to be aware of it.

"Now," she went on, her tone calmer, "what's your plan, Spike?  How are we getting to the Mayor?"

"Not we.  Me."  Blue eyes jumped between the other men.  "What kind of info did you get on that Faith dame?"

The mention of the girlfriend took them all by surprise.  "Quite a lot actually," Giles said, frowning.  "Why on earth do you need it?"

Spike smirked.  "Because I can't very well set a trap without havin' some bait to put in it, now can I?" he commented.

*************

Wesley's forearms rested on his knees as he leaned forward, the coffee she'd made for him forgotten at his side.  "I'm so sorry, Buffy," he said, his blue eyes kind.  "You have no idea how badly I wish I was wrong about this."

"I…just…"  She couldn't even formulate a complete sentence.  The shock of it all was still too raw, the knowledge that she'd fallen for it heartrending.

A hitman for the Conti family.  Not only _a_ hitman.  _The_ hitman.  Even if Wesley didn't know where exactly he'd been for the last few years.  But Buffy knew.  Because Spike had told her.  California.

And he was out to kill her, using his friend Xander to get close to Angel, putting Willow in at the club to befriend her, arranging to be at Willy's that night…oh god, that night…

It had been a set-up from the beginning.  There she had been, thinking she was being so clever, when all along, he'd been playing her for a sap, orchestrating their meetings, using whatever information he'd gleaned from whatever his sources were to get to her as quickly as possible.  It _had_ been too good to be true.  And she'd fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

_But he's had ample opportunity to off you_, the little voice said inside her head.  _If what Wesley says is true, why hasn't Spike killed you already?_

But Wesley wouldn't lie.  He was one of the good guys.  Buffy knew for a fact that Wes was one of the few within the Wilkins family who wasn't actually in on any of the shady dealings; Angel bragged constantly about how great it was having someone so squeaky to front to the authorities if ever things got a little hot.  They didn't let him in on any of the family secrets and they never asked him to do dirty work.  Not that he wouldn't have.  He was the loyal sort.  But nobody believed that it was in him to do any of the shadier dealings, so nobody asked him to.  She had no reason not to believe him if he said Spike was there to kill her.

He'd only run from her tonight because Willow had called to warn him about getting fingered by the Mayor.  As soon as Wesley had mentioned the connection between the coat check girl and Spike, Buffy had figured out immediately who it was that had rung.  And he'd bolted, like a scared rabbit, so that he could plan his next move.

She blanched.  He'd asked her to stay put.  His last request to her before leaving had been not to leave because he wanted to be able to find her without having any trouble.  _To kill me_, she thought, and swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat.

She had no idea why the Conti family wanted her dead.  Of course, she'd never figured out why someone out in California had wanted her dead, either---.

The dots connected then.

Spike had been out in California for the last five years, he'd said.

Which meant he'd been out there at the time of the fire.

She'd been wrong all along.  It wasn't someone in the Wilkins family who shot her.

It very well could've been Spike.

Buffy raised steady eyes to Wesley.  Though her insides were seething, anger was beginning to replace the shock that had initially attacked her body.  She wasn't going to let him win.  She'd come too far to get shot down by a pair of penetrating blue eyes and a baritone that made her toes curl.  "Thank you for telling me," she said, her voice calm.  

"We have to keep you safe until we can get Rook in the hands of the authorities," Wesley said.  "I can help with that.  I know a place---."

Buffy shook her head.  "Thanks, but that won't be necessary.  I have somewhere I can go for a while."

"I'd like to stay with you for a bit, if possible.  Just to ensure your wellbeing."

"Thanks," she said again, and this time, gave him a little smile.

No way in hell was she going to let Spike get to her again.  She'd shoot him herself, if it came down to it.

To be continued in Chapter 13: Danger By My Side…


	13. Danger By My Side

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Wesley has deduced---incorrectly---that Buffy is Spike's mark and gone to tell her, while the truth about Spike's relationship with her has come out to his friends, leaving things tense as they work on finishing their assignment as quickly as possible…

*************

They didn't like his plan, but then again, what else was new.  Ripper had, of course, spent half a bloody hour delineating all its flaws, while Harris had just sat on the bed, watching him in the half-awe, half-jealousy that had been all over his mug ever since he'd heard of Spike and Buffy.  Only Red held her tongue, but he knew she was lost in her own pain.  That Wesley had gotten to her just as deeply as Buffy had to him, only in her case, there was no chance of putting the pieces back together when this was all over.  She was going to have to suffer, long after they were back in California.

Though he hated the idea of this deadline just as much as the others, Spike alone saw the silver lining it presented.  He was still alive.  The sooner this job got done, the better his odds at escaping New York City with his heart still beating, and for that, he was grateful to the damn lawyers for their immutable cut-off date.  Of course, he still had to actually _do _it, and not get himself killed in the process, but in the grander scheme of things, that seemed almost irrelevant.  The past was rearing its ugly head, starting to spread its claws, and the sooner he was free from the tether of the city, the happier he was going to be.

Giles already had the tickets to go home.  If everything went as planned---no, he hastened to amend, _when _everything goes as planned---they would be on a flight to LA within two hours after it was over, away from the threat of exposure and back in the lap of the lawyers and their files.  There would be five of them going back, though; of that, Spike had been adamant.

"She's coming if I have to chain her up and stuff her in a soddin' suitcase," he had growled.  "So you _will_ get Buffy a ticket, too, Rip."

No way was he leaving her behind.  Not after everything.  She had some strange sense of loyalty to Angel Wilkins that he didn't understand, but Spike didn't care.  This wasn't her home.  Her place was with him, back in California.  Away from nightmares and crying jags and the need to know how to protect herself.  Singing and doing what would make her happy.  Because she deserved it after the pain of her past.

He'd tell her everything then.  Make her understand.  She'd be able to see past the vestiges of his own colorful history, Spike was certain.  Hell, she'd been about to marry into one of the most dangerous crime families in New York City; no way was she going to go squeamish when he'd actually gone straight.  Well, mostly straight.  It felt too good not to be just a little bent.

With the few hours he had before things got set into motion, Spike was packing, arranging what needed to be arranged before blowing the city for good.  He'd briefly considered contacting Clem and asking him to go keep an eye on Buffy, but he'd soon dismissed it, almost smiling as he remembered the last conversation he'd had with his old friend after getting back the notebook.

"You're messing with fire with that one," Clem had said, shaking his head.  "Angel Wilkins doesn't like other people playing with his toys, if you know what I mean."

"She's not a toy, and she doesn't belong to the wanker," Spike had retorted.

"Still…she's kind of scary, if you ask me."

"I didn't."

"And skinny.  Don't you think she's a little skinny?  Personally, I like 'em to have a little meat on their bones.  Like that actress---."

"She's beautiful just the way she is.  And since when are you noticing what a dame like that looks like?  Usually, you're too busy burying your head in the sand because you think they'll notice you."

"Since she pulls a gun on me and pats me down faster than anyone I've ever seen."  He'd blushed at Spike's raised eyebrow.  "Oh, except you, of course.  Like I said.  Kind of scary."

So that crossed Clem off the list.  

Harris was another possibility, but in light of all the revelations of the day, having him near Buffy right now probably wasn't the brightest idea.  Besides, Spike needed him for the plan to work.  No, he'd just have to play his odds and hope that Buffy actually did what she was told this time, staying put so that he could find her when this was over.  

If she left her apartment, he wasn't sure what he was going to do.

*************

As much as she liked the guy, Wesley's hovering was starting to grate on her nerves, and Buffy had to literally sit on her hands to keep herself from pushing him out the door.  "For the last time," she said, "I'll be fine now that Mickey's here."  She watched as the two men squared off with each other.  "Please, Wes.  You can go now.  Go…do what you said you were going to do about Spike.  The authorities, right?"

Wesley's mouth was grim.  "Right," he said.  "I just…I'd feel better knowing someone was taking care of you."

In spite of their proximity, Mickey laughed, his blue eyes dancing.  "You don't know Buffy then," he snorted.  "That dame's a sharper shooter than me.  Why just the other day---."

"I think he's got it," she interrupted, unwilling for more details about her lunch with Spike to come out in the open.  This was going to be hard enough to explain once the dust was settled as it was.  At her friend's curious stare, though, she shrugged.  "So I learned how to protect myself.  A girl's got a right, doesn't she, Wes?"

After a pause, he nodded, suddenly weary as his shoulders slumped.  "Do you want me to try Angel again?" he asked as he turned toward the door.

Buffy shook her head.  It was pointless, she knew, but she didn't want to say it out loud, not when both of them knew exactly where Angel was.  Darla's.  He always went there when Buffy turned down his physical advances.  Some habits were hard to break.

"I'll…call you when I have more definitive news," Wesley said, stepping outside the small apartment.  "I'll be at Heaven if you need anything.  Just…be careful."

"Always," she vowed and closed the door behind him.

"He's wound up a little tight, ain't he?" Mickey commented as he strolled into the tiny living room.  It was the best he'd been able to scrounge up for Buffy on such short notice.  A friend of a friend of a friend was out of town, and the place was free for a few weeks, leaving it all right to stash the singer there until whatever smoke had blown up her skirt went away.  Hefting his overweight frame onto the couch, he watched her standing by the entrance, looking worn but still radiant as only Buffy Summers could.

"It's been a rough morning," she said quietly.  "For both of us."

"You going to tell me what this is all about?" he asked.  "I haven't seen you get this upset about something since you first showed up at my diner three years ago."

Sighing, she began pacing listlessly around the edges of the room, fingers running along the wall as if their support would somehow keep her from falling over.  She was exhausted.  Faced with the very real threat of Spike, she'd automatically switched off, just as she had learned to do so over the past few years, making the calls necessary to get the job done, holding her own until the last door was closed.  Now, here she was, tucked safely away, just waiting for the cops to do what her taxes paid them to do, and she could feel the last of her resolve crumbling away into dust.

Tears stung the back of her eyes, and Buffy rapidly blinked them away.  More than anything, she felt betrayed.  Not just by Spike, though that was bad enough.  But also by her own instincts.  Everything about him had screamed truth, safety, and she'd believed him when he told her he was mad for her.  Yet, she'd been wrong.  They'd lied to her.  And that ached with a tenuous weight that pulled at her very soul.

"You remember that guy I was in the diner with the other day?" she asked, stopping at the lone chair and sitting herself down to face Mickey on a more even level.  He nodded.  "Turns out he's William Rook."

The name immediately registered, and Mickey's jaw dropped.  "William the Bloody?"

"The one and only."

"You called him Spike."

"I guess that's what he's going by these days."

His mouth closed, opened, and then closed again, as the words failed to arrive.  Meaty fingers scratched at the back of his head as he digested the information.  "So, is someone after him?" he finally asked.  "That why you've stashed yourself here?  To keep yourself safe until he takes care of whoever it is?"

"No," she replied.  "_He's_ after _me_."

There was a moment of silence, and then the loudest guffaw erupted from Mickey's lips.  "No, really," he said through his laughter, sticking out his foot in her general direction.  "Try pulling the other one now."

"I'm serious.  I don't know why, but I'm his mark.  He's even put people in at the club I work at uptown."

His laughter slowly faded, and when it did, Mickey was left with a look of disbelief on his face.  "Did he just tell you this?" he asked.  "'Cause I've gotta tell you, I'm not buying it."

"No, Wesley found out."  Buffy shook her head.  "It's a long story.  One that will get you into a lot of trouble if you find out about."

"It's jake.  You don't have to say a word.  But…"  His voice grew somber.  "…if all you're going on is the word of English there, I think you might be barking up the wrong tree.  I get that Spike could be William the Bloody.  I mean, did you see how he took out Bobby the Bear?  But there's no way in hell you're going to convince me he wants you dead, Buffy.  Not with what I saw.  Hell, not with what he said after you left."

"What?  What're you talking about?"

"He stuck around after you dusted out.  Helped me a bit with the clean up.  You should've seen the look on his face when he was talking about seeing you with the gun.  Just busting out with pride, like he was expecting his first kid to take a step and she ran the fucking marathon instead.  He asked me a couple questions about you and me---."  At the alarmed look on her face, he held up his hand.  "---but I didn't say anything, don't you worry.  But, Buffy…I'd stake everything I've got to say that that's not a man who wants to kill you.  That's a man who wants to whisk you away to a tropical paradise and forget the rest of the world even exists.  Unless you can tell me you saw him take a shot at you with your own eyes, or heard him say it with your own ears, you're not going to convince me otherwise."

His words left her feeling hollow.  Any other time, and she would've listened to anything that came out of Mickey's mouth and trusted it implicitly.  When she'd first wandered into his diner, he'd almost immediately taken her under his wing, listening to her talk about her past---nothing about her present, that came later---and then offering to help in the way of learning how to defend herself.  She had quickly surpassed him at the range, but that only cemented their friendship even further; his respect for the beautiful but tough singer grew by leaps and bounds as her ability to help herself expanded.

And now here he was, saying that given the choice, he'd believe the Conti's best trigger man over an upstanding club manager, merely after having had a brief conversation with him.

"Wesley wouldn't lie to me," Buffy said slowly.  "He's a good man.  He's seriously concerned about my welfare."

Mickey shrugged.  "Even good men make mistakes.  Have you tried talking to Spike about any of this?"

"No, that's…"  Her voice trailed away, her gaze sliding to her abandoned purse near the door.  She still had his number, stuffed somewhere at the bottom of her bag on the pages she'd ripped from Clem's notebook.  Could it really hurt to call him? she wondered.  It wasn't like she was going to tell him where she was, and he couldn't actually kill her through a telephone line.  He might not even be there for that matter.

"What does your gut tell you, Buffy?" Mickey asked quietly.

It was screaming at her, furious at being denied by these so-called irrefutable facts.  It wanted to be unleashed, back in control, just like it had been in control of so many other aspects of her life for so long.

More than that, it wanted to believe in Spike.

Tremulous fingers pulled the paper from her purse, and she turned her back to the room as she slowly dialed the number that was written there.  He's probably not even there, she thought wildly.  And if he lies to me about one single thing, I swear I'm going to hang up.  

_Please don't lie, Spike_.

"Yeah?"

It was him.  God, he was actually there.  Breathe.  Don't let him hear how scared you are.

"Hello, William."  First test.  Pass or fail, Spike.  Pass or fail.

She heard his sharp intake of breath.  "Buffy?  What's wrong, pet?  Why'd…"  He stopped then, and she realized he heard then what she'd said.  There was silence, and then… "You found out."  Not a question.  Statement of fact.  Like he wasn't even surprised.  "Please tell me that prat of a fiancé of yours isn't there."

"No, he's not.  _I'm_ not, actually."  She swallowed hard.  "You really thought you could keep the fact that you work for the Conti's a secret, Spike?"

"What?  I _don't_ work for the Conti's."  She would've sworn that was genuine confusion in his voice.  "Well," he added, "not anymore.  Haven't since I left the family five years ago.  Is that what this is about?  You're not hurt or anything, are you?"

Yes, I'm hurt, she wanted to scream into the receiver.  I'm ripped apart inside because everything about you is a lie.

But he hadn't lied yet.  At least, she didn't think so.  Wesley hadn't been sure he was still working for the Conti's, only that he had until he'd disappeared a few years earlier.  What he was saying could be true.

"Why are you in New York?" she asked instead, maintaining that superficial calm that belied the turmoil in her stomach.

She heard him sigh through the receiver, and could almost see him running his fingers through his hair.  "This was a conversation I was hoping we'd be havin' tonight, luv," Spike said.  "Your timing's a little off here."

"Was this going to be before or after you knocked me off?"

And there it was.  Atta girl, Summers, she commended herself.  Face the attacking enemy head on.  Don't let him squirm his way out of this one.

"What?  Why in bloody hell would you think I'm here to kill _you_?" he demanded.

There was no mistaking the righteous indignation in his voice, nor the speediness of his shotfire response, and for the first time since picking up the phone, Buffy felt the tingle of fear creeping along her spine.  Fear, and…hope?

"Wesley said---."

"Wesley?  Red's Wesley?  How the hell did he find out about you and me?"

"He didn't.  He figured out I was the one you were after with all your manpower at Heaven, and came to tell me."

"You're not the one who's marked, Buffy.  Get that out of your head right now."

The understanding that he wasn't denying his job, only his target, didn't escape her attention.  But would he tell you about it anyway? she wondered.  "So, if I'm not the one, tell me who it is you're going to kill," she said.

He took too long to respond, each second a weight upon her flesh.  "It's too dangerous," Spike finally said.  "I'm not letting you get in that deep."

She couldn't help the laugh that bubbled from her lips.  "A little late for that, I think."

"Look, pack a bag.  I'm sending Red over to get you right now.  I'll explain it all---."

"I'm not at my apartment."

Pause.  His voice came back harder.  "I thought I told you to stay put."

"So you could kill me?  I don't think so."

"I already said---."

"And then I said, and then you said, and I said…"  She sighed.  "We could do this all day, Spike.  You're a killer.  That's who you are.  Not exactly the type to inspire confidence, if you know what I mean."  The irony of her words didn't escape her attention, but she shoved aside the guilty feelings that rose in her stomach to plow onward.  "If you don't trust _me_ enough to tell me what exactly is going on, how in hell do you expect me to trust _you_?"

"Damn it, Buffy…"  Through the phone line, she heard the squeak of a mattress creaking, and knew he had just sat down, could practically see him bent over with the phone to his ear, long fingers worrying those white-blond curls.  When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost pleading, and it rubbed its salt tears in the wounds within her heart.

"Don't you think if I wanted to kill you, I would've done it by now?" he asked quietly.  "I could've done it when you were asleep in my arms, or when I was kissing away your tears because something inside you hurt so badly you couldn't keep it in anymore.  Or maybe I could've just pushed you from the fire escape instead of holding you.  People fall from fire escapes all the time.  Would've been eggs in the coffee to make it look like an accident."

"Spike…"

"Don't think you haven't thrown a spanner in my plans, pet.  Meeting you…fallin' for you…you think I wanted that to happen?  I just wanted to do the job and get the hell out of town with my skin still intact.  No way was I interested in losin' my head over the most amazing woman I've ever met."

"Spike---."

"I'm not finished."  A deep sigh, and his voice came back stronger but no less heartbreaking.  "You don't trust me, I can't do anything about that.  But I'd never in a thousand lifetimes hurt you, luv.  Never."  Pause.  "We're blowin' town as soon as I get the job done today.  I'm not goin' to ask again where you are, but…I bought you a plane ticket, if you want it.  We're flyin' out of Municipal at six.  I…it'd be…bugger…"  

The last was almost a snarl, and Buffy flinched as if he was standing right before her.  His frustration bled through the line, and she knew that if he'd actually been in the same room as she, she would've forgotten everything in less than the space of a single heartbeat.  She would've believed him.  She would've done exactly like he'd asked.

But he wasn't.

And she couldn't.

Could she?

"Made a promise to myself that I'd get them out of this," he was saying, more in control now.  "And as much as I'd like to say fuck it, I can't.  Not when…I just can't.  So I'm seein' this through, and hopefully I'll come out alive on the other side of it all.  It'd be…nice if I saw you there waitin' for me, Buffy."

It took almost thirty seconds of dial tone for her to realize he had hung up on her.

*************

She didn't really have a place in the actual execution of the plan.  For some reason, Spike had been unyielding about that.  "You've done your part already, Red," he'd said.  "Now it's time for mine."

Not that she was arguing.  She didn't have a stomach for the actual killing, never had.  Spike and Giles had had to do a few hits over the years, and though she always used whatever reason she could to rationalize their actions, it wasn't easy to realize that she could be capable of being involved in such things.  It was simpler to be slightly shady when the bodies didn't come floating back up the river to haunt you.  Safe behind the anonymity of her research and machinations.

No, her contributions to the effort rested in the getaway, making sure she was there with the Desoto afterward so that Spike could make a clean sneak of it.  With Xander and Giles necessary on other fronts, she was the only one remaining who could have the car in place.

He'd asked her to do something else first, though, and it was with trepidation that Willow now approached the back door to Heaven.  It was harmless, really, she silently reasoned, easing the entrance open and slipping into the velvety darkness of the club's backstage area.  Just grab some of Buffy's things in case she doesn't get a chance to pack her own bag, and hightail it out of there until it was time to get the Desoto.  Duck soup.

So why couldn't she shake this feeling that something was terribly wrong?

It had been clinging to her skin ever since she'd left Giles'.  He was in a strange mood, jumping from irritation with Spike to anger over the details of the plan to ingratiating compassion toward her, so agreeing to Spike's request had been remarkably easy.  Anything to get away and clear her head.

Hailing a cab, she had taken as quick a route to Heaven as possible, but with every passing block, the sense that something was…off, forced her head to turn, to look behind her as her eyes scanned the throngs on the sidewalk.  Nothing ever raised its head, but even as she crept up the stairs to Buffy's dressing room, the feeling refused to go away.

Inside, it was dark, and Willow fumbled with the overhead light as she eased the door almost shut.  The click it would make if she shut it completely would be too loud in the deafening silence of the club, so she was just going to have to be satisfied with leaving it mostly closed, she decided.  A quick survey of the room, and she was at the dressing table, sorting through the bits before stuffing what she considered essentials into the bag she'd brought for the purpose.

"Curious," came a voice from behind her, and Willow whirled in her spot, clutching the bag to her chest to see two men standing inside the room.  The larger of the two, a gruff-looking black man, pushed the door shut, heedless of the noise it made, while the younger, suited brunette advanced toward her with a small smile on his face.

"I didn't think petty theft was part of your repertoire, Miss Rosenberg," he went on to say.  

"It's not."  She held her shoulders straight.  "Wait a minute.  Who are you?  How do you know who I am?"

The abashed duck of his head made him look even younger, and he shook it slightly as he stepped closer.  "I keep forgetting that none of you actually know what I look like," he said, and stuck out his hand in greeting.  "Lindsey McDonald.  Wolfram and Hart."

*************

The slamming of a door from somewhere in the back of the club was what alerted Wesley that someone else was around.  Usually, Heaven was fairly deserted during the day; that was why he'd opted to come around to his office there to clean up and do what could be done about Rook.  The few phone calls he'd managed to get done already had been fruitless, however, and he was beginning to feel the tinges of failure crisping his mood.

Now, though, he was no longer alone, and caution made him open the door to his office and step outside, waiting for his eyes to become adjusted to the dark before scanning the interior.  No one on the main floor.  When he lifted his head, though, he saw the yellow outline of illumination coming from inside Buffy's dressing room, and he frowned.

Why would Buffy come back here? he wondered as he headed toward the stairs.  She was so worried about being safe.  Could she have forgotten something she needs?  Why wouldn't she just call me?

His hand was almost on the doorknob when he heard the voices trickle through the wood.  Wesley froze as Willow's words became clear.

"Can't you damn lawyers just leave us alone and let us do our job?" she was saying.  Her voice was strident, her anger apparent, and Wes leaned closer to better hear the conversation.  Lawyers?  And why was Willow in Buffy's dressing room?  What possible purpose could it serve for anyone involved?

"Our intervention wouldn't be necessary if you'd completed it in a timely fashion."  A man's voice.  Midwestern with a hint of education trying to hide that fact.  Obviously the lawyer Willow was referring to.  "My clients aren't happy with how slowly Mr. Rook is moving on this."

"Gee, I never would've guessed," Willow replied sarcastically.  "Funny how that twenty-four deadline kind of made this whole thing crystal clear for us that you wanted it done quickly."

"You gave us no choice.  You were hired---."

"We were _blackmailed_."

"You're being paid, aren't you?  Quite handsomely, I might add.  Fifty large is not the kind of money you turn your nose up at, Miss Rosenberg."

"Look, Mr. McDonald.  We both know that that's just to keep your books looking all nice and pretty.  You _know_ there's no way Spike would've taken this job if you hadn't threatened to expose all of us.  To me, that's blackmail, and none of your fancy lawyer-talk is going to convince me otherwise."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to.  I'd say, let's call the whole thing off, but then that wouldn't make my clients very happy now, would it?"

"You keep talking about your clients.  Are we ever going to find out who wants the Mayor dead?"

The lawyer responded immediately, but his words were lost on Wesley as the realization of what Willow had just said sank in.

The Mayor.

Dead.

Not Buffy.

How could he have made such a grievous error?

And she was sitting in some dank apartment, on the other side of town, scared out of her mind, and it was all because of him and his misplaced logic.

It had made sense though, he argued with himself.  Why else would Rook have been paying so much attention to Buffy?

Regardless, she would have to be told.  She needed to know that she was safe.  Well, as safe as she ever was considering who she was engaged to.

He'd started to turn away, ready to return to his office before his presence was noted when Willow's voice came to his ear again.

"What I don't get is why you'd be following me around town," she said.  "The hit's going to happen this afternoon, no thanks to your deadline.  Then we're all gone, and everyone should be happy, right?"

"Wrong."

"Not everyone's going to be happy?"

"Not everyone's going to be gone," he clarified.

Silence.  

Then… 

"I don't understand."

Her voice had changed, the fear that was creeping into it making it tremor.  Wesley's blood chilled, his body tensing as his instinct to protect the redhead reared its head again.  Some of it was more clear to him now.  Yes, she was involved in this hit, but for all intents and purposes, it looked as if it was reluctantly, this blackmail she was referring to a coercive attempt by whoever had hired the lawyers to get their compliance.  It didn't make things better, he knew, but it certainly made it more understandable.

"We know you're Rook's escape plan," the lawyer said.  "I'm afraid we can't let that happen."

*************

She gaped at him, a flush creeping up her neck.  "How could you know that?" Willow demanded, not even noticing the way the other man in the room was opening his jacket.

Lindsey shrugged.  "We have our ways."  He nodded toward his companion.

Her hand was already sliding into the purse hidden by the bag in her arms when the knock at the door surprised all of them, freezing them in their places.

"So sorry to interrupt, Buffy," Wesley said as the door opened and he stepped inside.  "But I saw your light on…"  He stopped, frowning in confusion as his eyes lit on Willow.  "Oh.  I thought…"  Quickly, his blue gaze darted from Lindsey to the third man, and he straightened, assuming the mantle of authority as the manager of the club.  "May I ask what you're doing here?" he said of the others.

The next few seconds were a blur for Willow.

One moment, Lindsey's bodyguard was facing off with Wes.  

The next, a flash of something metallic gleamed in Wesley's hand, and the two men were pressed chest to chest as they grappled, both faces grim.

Her fingers flew to her purse and pulled out the gun she'd been carrying since leaving her hotel room that morning, lifting it with a shaking stance to aim at Lindsey.  "Make him stop!" she ordered the lawyer.

Briefly, he seemed to consider her words, but before he could turn to face the pair behind him, the bodyguard's body slumped against Wesley, sliding down his length to crumple into a heap on the floor.

She watched him fall, but as her gaze traveled back upward, it followed a scarlet path, one that sucked the breath directly from Willow's lungs.  Blood.  A trail of it, all the way up Wesley's leg…his hips…his torso, stopping just below his chest.  There was more of it, on the knuckles of his still-curled fingers, and she saw for the first time what exactly he held.

His pen.  The same Mont Blanc she'd used to fill out all that damn paperwork.

His face was grim, but he seemed oblivious to the bleeding man at his feet, his blue eyes locked instead on Willow's wan face.  "Are you all right?" he asked, and she felt her heart skip a beat at the concern in his words.  

She nodded.  "Neat trick," she said shakily, nodding toward the pen in his hand.

Wesley glanced down at it, and she saw the corner of his mouth lift.  "Yes, well, it most definitely is multi-purpose," he replied.  "It must be that award-winning design I told you about."

"Is he…?"  She looked down at the body.

"Dead?  I certainly hope so.  I was aiming for his heart."

It was only then that it dawned on her that Wesley was actually _there_.  That after all his words of warning to her in her hotel room, he still managed to be where _she_ was.  The exaltation she'd initially felt at his entrance faded as she swallowed hard, steeling her grip on her weapon so that he couldn't see her nervousness.  "Don't tell me you're following me, too?" she said calmly.

His eyes narrowed.  "I _work_ here, remember?" he replied cautiously.  "And this is not your dressing room."  His gaze slid to Lindsey.  "And you still haven't told me who the hell you are."

"Trouble with a capital T," Willow said, answering for the lawyer.  "But I've got bigger problems on the horizon right now, Wesley.  Can you help me tie him up?"

"Hey!" Lindsey protested, backing away from both of them.  "Let's not get excited now.  I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement---."  He was silenced when the other man's fist shot out, sending him reeling into the wall, collapsing unconscious to the floor.

"I hate lawyers," Wesley muttered, and then turned back to Willow.  "I don't suppose you would put that away now?" he asked, motioning toward her gun.

She didn't move.  "Buffy said you were one of the good guys," she said.  Gone was the strength in her voice, to be replaced with a confused indecision that begged to be placated.

He tossed his pen aside and took a step closer to her.  "I am."

"You just killed a man.  With a pen.  That's something…that's something _Spike_ would do."

He didn't deny it.  He only took a step closer.  "Why didn't you tell me they were blackmailing you into killing the Mayor?" he asked gently.

"Would it have made a difference?"

"Yes…well, no, not exactly, but---."

"That's why then."

Another step.  Closer now.  "I asked you to be careful."  Wesley indicated the two bodies in the room.  "You call this careful?"

It was when she glanced away, following his gestures with her eyes, that his hands closed over hers, gently prising the gun from her grip.  Her gaze jumped back, drowning in the kind blue looking back at her, and while she stiffened at the sudden burning along her skin from his touch, her fingers relaxed so that he could take the weapon safely.

"You heard all of it, didn't you."  It was a statement of fact, not a question.  She already knew the answer.  "And you still came in?"

He seemed genuinely perplexed by her question.  "They were going to hurt you, Willow.  Why would I offer to protect you, only to let some…mouthpiece hurt you now?"  Automatically, his hands reached up to touch her face, but when he saw the blood still staining his fingers, he stopped, hesitating as both of them just looked at the scarlet.  "Buffy…" he murmured, and turned away.  "I need to call Buffy.  She needs to know about this."

Willow's hand shot out, grabbing his arm, ignoring the blood that tainted his crisp white shirt.  "What does Buffy have to do with anything?" she demanded.  

Wesley actually blushed.  "Well, it would appear that I…wrongly deduced who your intended target was," he admitted.  "And now she's hiding, believing that Spike is on the lookout for her."

"But that's ridiculous.  Spike wouldn't…"  Oops.  She'd totally forgotten about Spike.  And everything Lindsey had said right before Wesley had come charging in.  She blanched, letting him go to rush past him toward the door.

It was his turn to stop her.  "Where are you going?"

"I have to get to Spike before he does anything.  You heard them---."

"It's not safe.  I'm not letting you out of my sight again."

"Then you can come with me, but I'm still going."  She tugged at her arm, but his grip remained firm.

"I must call Buffy, and…"  His gaze flickered down to his ruined clothing.  "…change before going out in public."

"We don't have time for that!  I thought you heard what they said!"

"I did, but---."

She wrenched from his grasp then, her heart pounding.  "You're still not getting it, Wesley.  They were trying to keep me from getting him out of there.  Whoever it is that hired us to off the Mayor is setting him up.  Spike's about to walk into some kind of trap."

*************

The knock at the door made her lips curve into a suggestive smile, and Faith rose from where she'd been sprawled along the unmade bed to grab the robe that lay draped over the chaise.  That certainly didn't take him very long, she thought as she slipped her arms into the silk, not even bothering to do up the belt as she padded her way through the luxurious apartment.

"Guess that bubble bath sounded better than you thought," she said as she pulled the door open, and then froze when instead of Richard's face, she was met with the lounging form of a smiling William Rook.

"Well, hello there, cutie," he drawled.

To be continued in Chapter 14: A Slight Case of Murder…


	14. A Slight Case of Murder

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike has told Buffy that she's not the mark, while Wesley has saved Willow from getting hurt when Lindsey and his bodyguard arrive at Heaven to prevent her from helping Spike escape after the hit.  Willow has figured out that Spike is being set up for something by whoever it was that hired them, and he, in the meantime, has arrived at Faith's apartment…

*************

Give the man a twenty-four deadline and he goes for the whore angle, Trick thought as he stepped into the foyer of the apartment building.  Interesting.

Considering how slippery the Mayor could be, it wasn't the method he would've used to get to the man; it seemed to Trick that down and dirty was really the best plan of attack under the circumstances.  Find the man in the street and gun him down with too many witnesses to give a coherent report.  But he'd been warned that Rook was unpredictable and this certainly fit his modus operandi.  And if his boss wasn't so invested in the outcome of the hit, he'd be tempted to just sit back and watch the whole thing go down.  Somehow, he got a feeling it was going to be a good show.

Or it would've been if he didn't already know how it was going to end.

Under normal circumstances, he didn't think the doorman would've let someone like him loiter in the lobby of such a hoity-toity apartment building, but slipping him a pair of C's had made him a lot more amenable to overlooking Trick's presence.  He'd been looking forward to this part of the job ever since the arrangements had been made.  As soon as the mouthpiece had given the deadline ultimatum, the assignments had fallen into place---Trick on Rook, McDonald and Leroy on the red-haired dame, Gunn on Giles.  They'd had to pull someone in from the neighborhood to cover the other guy---Trick didn't even know his name---but Rook was the important player in this game.  All of them knew that.  That was why Trick got him.

Because he was the best.  

Because there was no way in hell the boss was going to let Rook get away without paying for what he'd done so many years ago.  

And because vengeance served cold tasted sweetest.

*************

He couldn't help his smirk as his blue eyes swept over her exposed curves, the white silk of her peignoir set offsetting the olive tones in her skin, deepening the cinnamon of her eyes.  "Now that's a breakfast treat to wake up to," Spike commented as he pushed himself off the jamb and stepped inside the entrance.  He brushed past her and into the elegantly furnished living room, drinking in the plush contours of the furniture before strolling over to the large window.  "Nice view."

"Did I miss the part of our conversation last night where I said stop by and see me some time?" Faith asked.  She kept the door open, hand on its edge, making it more than clear that she expected him to leave.

His back was to her, and as carefully as he could manage, Spike slid his hand to his holster inside his jacket so that she couldn't see what he was doing.  "And here I thought we'd developed a rapport," he said.  The twist of his body sideways aimed his gun directly at her, and his mouth was firm.  "Now shut the door."

She didn't even flinch as she pushed it with the tips of her fingers, waiting until it was closed against the outside before speaking again.  "Funny.  Not the long and hard I'm really in the mood for right now."

"Expectin' company?"

"Don't need company for that."

In spite of his mood, he grinned, and felt his admiration for the girl swell.  If it wasn't for Buffy, this was one dame he could've spent hours being entertained by.  Probably a tiger in the sack, he reasoned.  No wonder Wilkins likes her so much.

Out loud, he said, "As much as I'd love to be the one to prove to you otherwise, I'm goin' to be needing you to get dressed, pet.  We got us a little business to take care of."

Defiantly, she folded her arms across her chest, not moving from her spot.  "This the business that had you around Heaven?" she asked.  "I knew I should've told Richard about you."

"Hate to break it to you, but Dick already knows."

His response was the first thing to garner a reaction from her, and Faith frowned, her body stiffening.  Spike watched as her eyes darted to a small end table that lay halfway between them, and saw the phone that rested on top of it.

He beat her to it, yanking the cord from the wall as his leg lashed out to sweep her feet out from under her.  Faith went sprawling, and before she could regain her balance, he had his free arm wrapped around her waist, chuckling as he carried her struggling form into the adjoining room.  "This kind of moxie's only goin' to get you hurt," he said.  "And you're not the one I'm interested in hurting right now."  Unceremoniously, he dropped her onto the unmade bed, and pressed the barrel of the gun into her temple.  "But I will if you don't start behaving like a good little girl and do as I say."

"What's the grift, Spike?" she spat.  Slowly, she sat up, fixing her gaze on him even as he kept the gun trained on her head.  "Not that I didn't already think you were one to get all gashouse on a girl, but all you had to do was ask, you know.  If you'd played your cards right, I could've shown you tricks B couldn't even begin to imagine."  She saw his nostrils flare at the mention of Buffy, and the smile curved across her face.  "Is that it?" she asked.  "Did B tell you to go climb up your thumb?  Well, aren't I a bunny.  I should've guessed you were here to work out your sexual frustration."

Snarling, Spike entangled his free fingers into the loose strands of her hair, pushing her face down sideways against the bed before kneeling to put his own only inches from hers.  "Buffy's got nothin' to do with this, understand?" he said.  The flicker of pain that darted behind the brown sent a twinge of guilt through his head, but he quickly shoved it aside in the face of the job that lay before him.  "This is business, pure and simple.  Now.  I'm goin' to let you go, and you're goin' to sashay that perky little ass of yours to what I'm assuming is your closet and not the maid's quarters, and you're goin' to get yourself dolled up all nice and pretty-like, all right?  Because if you don't, I'm goin' to put a bullet through your head and find another way to get my business accomplished."

He sincerely hoped she'd just start doing what he said.  He liked Faith.  He didn't want to kill her.  But if she wasn't going to cooperate and come peaceably, he wasn't going to have a choice about plugging her and coming up with another solution to killing the Mayor.

The tension slowly eased from Faith's shoulders, and her lashes lowered so it was impossible for him to see her eyes.  "Fine," she said tightly.  She waited for him to move the gun, but when he only extricated his hand from her hair, she gritted her teeth and sat up anyway, brassily pressing back against the muzzle until she was erect.  "I suppose you're going to want to watch me change, too," she added, and only then did she look up at him.  "Be a good boy and maybe I'll let you help."

"I'll wager that's probably Dick's favorite part," Spike said, relaxing his aim slightly to allow her to stand.

"That mean you're taking me up on my offer?"

"No, it means your sugar daddy's got good taste."  His eyes flickered to the mussed sheets, the realization that she was still dressed in her nightclothes at nearly noon finally settling in his brain.  His eyes narrowed, darting around the room.  So many things he had missed upon entering, but then again, he'd been a little distracted.

The slightly steamy feeling in the air as the sticky air wafted in through the open door to the bathroom.

The faint aroma of aftershave.

A heavy watch laid meticulously on the nightstand.

"Where _is_ sugar daddy?" he asked warily, backing slightly away so that he could peer into the bathroom.  

His gun never wavered, and though Faith could see that his attention was elsewhere, there was no mistaking his notice of her.  "Not here, if that's what you're thinking," she replied.

"But he was."

"And now he's not.  What's your point, Sherlock?"

His blue gaze was level, a glimmer of satisfaction hidden in the depths.  "He left his watch."

"So?  In case you haven't noticed, Richard's got the dough.  He can afford to own more than one watch."

"Next to his wallet."

It was only then that she looked over at the stand next to the bed and spotted the billfold almost hidden behind the lamp.  Before she could turn back, Spike had wrapped his hand around her arm, jerking her firmly against him.

"Change of plans, luv.  Now, why do I think a skirt like you is goin' to have rope handy?"

*************

She hadn't stopped moving since the phone call.

With an exasperated sigh, Mickey heaved himself from the couch, pulling his keys out of his pocket at the same time.

In mid-step, Buffy froze, frowning as she watched him head toward the door.  "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Anywhere but here," he replied.  "You're making me dizzy with all the pacing, and if you're not going to do something about what Spike said to you, then there's no point in me hanging around."

"You're kidding, right?"  She stared at him, incredulous.  "Do you really think I should just throw away everything I have here, meet up at the airport with a man who very possibly is trying to kill me, and fly back to California, like all the stuff that happened there before doesn't matter now?"  
There was a pause as he seemed to contemplate her words.  "Yeah, that's what I think," Mickey finally said.

"You're crazy."

"So're you."

The ringing of the telephone cut Buffy off from replying, startling her from her stance as her head whipped around to look at it.  "That's gotta be Wesley," she said, practically sprinting for the phone.  When it was up to her ear, she rushed, "Please, oh please, say you have good news for me, Wes."

A long silence.  "Um, OK, first of all, not Wes."

She stiffened at the sound of Willow's voice.  "How did you get this number?" she demanded.  "And what kind of nerve do you have---."

"I got it from Wesley," Willow interrupted.  "And it's only me calling so that he has time to change his clothes before we leave."

"So now you've fooled another decent man with your Pollyanna act?"  Buffy almost couldn't believe the bitterness that tinged her voice.  Prior to the revelations about Willow's involvement with Spike, she'd genuinely liked the redhead, and had been pleased that Wes had seemed to be interested in her.  Two good people who deserved to have a little happiness, she had thought.  Of course, that had all been shattered upon learning that the coat check girl was really working hand in hand with one of the best hitmen to ever come out of New York City.  Another gut instinct all shot to hell.

"What?  No, it's not like that.  He had blood all over---.  Never mind.  It'll take too long to explain and I don't have time to be storyteller right now.  Listen, he told me what he said to you.  You're _not_ Spike's mark, Buffy.  You've got to know that.  Wes got it all wrong---."

"And I should believe you because…why, Willow?  You called my place in the middle of the night and Spike goes running without telling me why, except to tell me not to go anywhere because he needs to be able to find me.  And then I find out he's William Rook?  You tell me what I'm supposed to think."

"You're supposed to think that Spike's nuts about you.  We've got tickets to get out of here tonight and he made Giles buy one for you, too.  Call the airline and confirm if you don't believe me.  He doesn't want you dead."

The blonde grimaced.  Call the airline.  Why hadn't she thought of that?  Because she'd been too busy obsessing about the possibility that Spike could actually be telling the truth and what in hell was she thinking even considering leaving everything behind here?

"If you're on the up and up," she finally said, "put Wes on the phone.  Otherwise, I'm hanging up and you can tell Spike he should've taken his shot when he had the chance."

"Damn it, Buffy---."

"I'm going to count to five.  If you don't put Wes on the phone, I'm gone."

"I told you, he's changing."

"One."

"You have to believe me.  Why would I lie to you?"

"Two."

"Oh, god, don't hang up.  Spike'll kill me."

"Three."

"Wait, wait."  Willow's voice grew fainter as she pulled the phone away from her mouth.  "Wes!" she called.  "Wes!  Please tell me you have pants on because I'm coming in!  You need to talk to Buffy now!"

Though the image of the club manager struggling with his trousers threatened to bring a smile to Buffy's face, she kept her voice level.  "Four."

"Don't say five!  Don't say five!  Hang on, he's right here.  Hang on!"

A clatter on the other end of the line.  Something crashing to the floor, and then the unmistakable sound of Wesley cursing.

"Buffy?  I'm so sorry for this."

Her heart was pounding; he was actually there.  Was all of it true?  Her gut was screaming at her a resounding yes, and the tenuous grip she had on her nerves threatened to slip.  When she spoke, though, her tone betrayed none of that.  "I knew you liked her, Wes," she said, "but I didn't expect her to be able to sway you over to the other side quite so fast."

"It's not like that.  I was wrong.  I had all the facts---well, not all the facts, I didn't get those until I heard them threatening Willow.  Anyway, _you're_ not the mark.  The Mayor is.  They're being blackmailed into killing Mr. Wilkins.  Not.  You."

She heard a slap of skin against skin and Willow's voice in the background immediately following.  "You weren't supposed to tell her that.  It puts her in danger, too."

"She needs to know."  Back into the receiver.  "Did you hear me?  You're perfectly safe.  You can go back to your apartment.  You're not in any danger from Spike."

"He's…trying to kill Mr. Wilkins?"

"Yes, but they're setting him up for something---."

"Wesley!"  That was Willow.

"---only we don't know what," he continued as if he hadn't been interrupted.  "As soon as I get off the phone here, we're going to where he's taking Faith---."

It was Buffy's turn to cut in.  "Faith?  What does she have to do with anything?"

"Apparently, she's how Spike was planning on getting to him."  He paused, and Buffy could hear Willow's voice in the background, muffled as if he had his hand over the receiver so she couldn't hear.   

Her mind was racing over all the new information.  First Mickey's disbelief, then Spike's disavowal.  Now, Wesley's confirmation of everything.  Not her.  He'd been telling her the truth.

And he was in trouble.  Enough trouble that Wesley was getting involved.  

"Buffy?  Did you hear me?"

She stopped the train of her thoughts long enough to focus on his voice again.  "What was that?" she asked.

"We're going now.  I'll try to explain what I can tonight at work, all right?"

"Right."

Her fingers were trembling as she hung up the phone, a glaze shading the green of her eyes as she just stood there, using the table as support.

"You all right there?"  Mickey's hand came out to rest on her shoulder, kneading it gently.

At first, Buffy nodded, but then the nod disintegrated into a mute shake of her head.  When she lifted her gaze to look into his face, the uncertainty had been replaced by the staunch strength he recognized as the woman he knew.  "Is that bucket of bolts of yours downstairs?" she asked.

His returning look was quizzical.  "Yeah.  What of it?"

Her purse was in her hands and she had pushed past him, out the door, before she answered.  "Because I need you to get me somewhere.  Fast."

*************

Maybe they'd been wrong.  Maybe the fact that Rook hadn't reappeared meant that he was just messing around with the whore and none of this had anything to do at all with the hit on the Mayor.  Maybe Trick was just wasting his time by hanging around in the lobby, waiting for something that wasn't going to happen.

He ducked his head when the doorman rushed forward to pull open the door for a whistling Richard Wilkins, noting the small white pastry bag dangling from the older man's hand.  Trick followed him with his eyes as he headed straight for the elevators, not once noting the presence of anything out of the ordinary, and disappeared inside the small lift to head---most likely---up to his mistress' apartment.

Then again, he thought with a satisfied chuckle, maybe everything was happening exactly according to plan.

With a small salute to the doorman, Trick slipped through the doors onto the street, aiming himself for the phone booth just several feet away.  Within seconds, he'd inserted his coin and had dialed the number.  

It was answered on the first ring.

"Get 'em down here," he said.  "I can only hold him so long."  Barking out the address of the apartment building, he was off the phone and back inside before the elevator had even stopped moving.

"You might want to freshen up a bit," Trick said to the doorman as he pressed the button for the elevator.  "You're about to get a whole lotta company."

*************

His hand still hurt from where she'd bitten him.  Midway through tying Faith up, the brunette had tried to make a break for it, screaming at the top of her lungs when she only half-managed to twist free from his grip.  Spike had immediately clamped his hand over her mouth and was rewarded with a resounding bite, but it hadn't been enough to loosen his grip.  Dragging her back to the bed, he'd slapped a gag on her as well as he could without letting her go, and finished lashing her wrists to the bedframe.  She'd only glared at him since.

Wilkins was coming back---that much was clear---but how long he would be gone, Spike had no idea.  He'd briefly debated following through on the original arrangement, but this opportunity seemed too rich to pass up.  Shoot the bastard when he came back for a little more nooky, then blow the joint and head straight for the airport.

The only kink in the new plan was that he couldn't call Harris and Red to let them know, having already yanked out the phone cord to prevent Faith from ringing for help.  They'd probably start stewing soon, Spike thought.  Not knowing where I am or what's goin' on.  Only hope is that Wilkins doesn't take long to show.  Then, I'll just head to the rendezvous as we'd arranged, but with the job done this time.

And then it would be the airport, and home.  Alive.

It was only then that he let his thoughts drift back to Buffy, and to the phone conversation he'd had with her before heading to Faith's.  She knew who he was.  She had some of her facts a bit all to cock, but she'd still not been so afraid to keep from calling him.  He should've said something to her sooner.  Should've told him who he was and why he exactly he was in the city.  But he couldn't, and he knew that.  And keeping her in the dark about who his mark was going to keep her alive, which right now, meant more to Spike than if she got on the plane or not.

Not that he didn't hope with all his being that she would show at Municipal.  God, what would he do if she didn't?

Back to life as normal.  Sign off on the contract with those fucking lawyers to get Red and Ripper in the clear, and then do what he could to make all this up to them.  A long vacation.  That's what they deserved.  Hell, Red was going to need one after having to give up on that club manager.

But what about him?  Could he just pretend the last week hadn't happened?  That he hadn't met Buffy, that she hadn't completely turned around his head on what could be possible when someone who understood you was right there by your side?

The short answer was no.  No way could he forget.

The long answer scared the hell out of him.  Because coming back to New York another time, especially after offing the Mayor, was just going to be too risky.  So if Buffy didn't come of her own accord, he was going to be left holding the bag on that one.

And the tattered remains of his heart, the scarred and battered one Dru had left him with, the one he thought had been incapable of feeling love again, would be left sitting and collecting dust on a long-forgotten shelf in the blonde singer's life, a prize she'd won without ever even knowing it.

The distant click of the door immediately sent his distracting thoughts scattering, and Spike stiffened, poising himself behind the bedroom door as he heard the footsteps come slowly through the apartment.

"Now where's my little firecracker?" the Mayor called out.  His voice grew louder as he approached the bedroom, and there was a papery rustle before he spoke again.  "I was thinking we could eat these sugary delights in that bubble bath you suggested.  It'll save on the clean-up afterward."

The door pushed open, and as the ginger hair became visible, Spike swung the butt of his gun at the back of the Mayor's head, watching as he crumpled to the floor.  Out like a bloody light.  Good.  Time to finish the job.

When he grabbed the pillow from the bed, his eyes met briefly with Faith's, the brown wide with fear and hatred.  For a moment, Spike faltered.  She was going to be losing out on a lot here; there was no reason he had to kill Wilkins in front of her.  It would only take a few extra seconds to drag him to the outer room.

Eschewing the urge to comfort her, he turned away, tossing the pillow through the open door before grabbing the Mayor under the arms and dragging him out.  Quickly, he picked the cushion back up and, placing it over the man's head, pressed the muzzle of his gun into its soft depths.  A deep breath steadied his nerves, clearing his head at the same time.  With three successive pulls of the trigger, the Mayor's mild struggling that had started as soon as his breathing had been blocked, stopped.

Immediately, Spike's hand shot to Wilkins' wrist.

Nothing.

No pulse.

It was done.

Straightening, Spike reholstered his gun, stretching his neck to the side as he did so.  It was surprising how tense he was.  He'd spent most of his life killing people for old man Conti; though he wasn't keen on having to do this particular assignment in the first place, he'd wasted more time and energy worrying about it than anything else he'd done in years.  It seemed like the further he got away from his past time-wise, the more distaste the choices he'd made left in his mouth.

But that didn't matter now.  Wilkins was dead, and now it was just a matter of---.

The cold steel pressed against the back of his neck, and Spike stiffened.  In his unwinding, he hadn't heard the steps come up behind him, and now realized he was no longer alone in the room.

"Well, isn't this just bloody swell," he muttered.

"Nice work."  It was a masculine voice behind him.  Not what he was expecting.  He'd thought it was Faith, managed to get herself free.  "Too bad I missed the main attraction."

"If I'd known there was goin' to be that much interest," Spike replied, keeping his voice even, "I'd've sold tickets."  Before the last word was out of his mouth, though, his body was swiveling, his elbow lifting to connect with the underside of the man's jaw, and he watched in grim determination as the black man went crashing back, his jaw clicking shut with a painful sound, his gun flying loose from his hand.

His own weapon was in his grip and aimed at the new arrival before he could sit up.  "Now tell me, who the fuck are you?" Spike demanded, standing over the man.

He wasn't responding.  As the seconds ticked by and it became clear that he wasn't going to get an answer, the blond's patience began to wane, the smell of the blood from the body behind him sending the reminder that he had places to go, people to see.  Briefly, he considered plugging the new guy, too, but quickly dismissed it.  It wasn't as if he didn't already have a witness to his presence; adding another body to the count could only mean trouble in the long run.

"On second thought, who the fuck cares?"  Spike's foot lashed out, smashing against the black man's jaw, knocking him out just as cleanly as if he'd shot him.  Only not permanently, he thought wryly.  Wouldn't Red be proud.

After a quick survey of the room, he was satisfied nothing was amiss and bolted for the doors, quickly noting the absence of the elevator and heading straight for the stairs.  A dozen or so floors wouldn't hurt him.  Especially since he'd learned on the way up that the damn lift made snails look like Seabiscuit.  Time was of the essence and all that rot.  Had to get out and get clear before Mr. Bojangles decided to wake up from his little nap and muck the whole thing up.

Spike skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, the muffled sound of voices---a lot of them---coming through the door to the lobby.  Pressing his ear against it, he caught the odd phrase and quickly realized the place was swarming with cops.

Bloody hell.

His mind raced.  He couldn't have been heard; he'd made sure to use the pillow to muffle the sound.  No phone meant the mistress bird couldn't have called for help.

That left the bloke he'd knocked out and Spike's gut was screaming at him that he wasn't a cop.

There wasn't any time for reflection, though.  His priority was to get out of the joint without getting nailed.  There was one other door in the stairwell, but where it led to, Spike had no clue.  A quick listen at it, though, told him there wasn't anyone on the other side.  Can't be worse than here, he reasoned, and quickly, pushed it open.

Maintenance.  In the corner, a furnace blazed, and Spike stood still for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.  The deafening silence meant he was alone, and it was on his second sweep of the interior that he saw the dark outline of the exit.  

Jackpot.

*************

Luck had been on their side with traffic.  As they rounded the corner to Faith's apartment in what was probably record time, Buffy's eyes widened as she saw the cadre of cop cars clustered along the street.

Apparently, Spike's trouble came with a badge.

"Pull over," she ordered, and waited as Mickey eased the car into a spot as near to the apartment building as he could get, hopping out before the vehicle had even stopped moving.

"Where are you going?" he said, leaning over the passenger seat to talk at her through the open window.

"To find out if I'm too late," she replied and began walking determinedly down the street.

Well before she made it to the entrance of the building, an officer blocked her path.  "I'm afraid you can't come through here," he said.  "You're going to have to take another route."

"What's happened?" she asked, eyes darting past him to see even more cops flooding inside the building.

"Someone's been killed.  Now just move yourself along."

Frowning, Buffy stepped back, walking just far enough away to convince the policeman she was leaving.  As soon as he'd turned away, though, she ducked into the nearest alley, pressing herself against the wall.

Now what? she thought wildly.  Did they have Spike in custody?  Was she too late to stop him?  It could be he's already gotten away.  I can't do anything here if I can't get inside.  All I can do is…what?  What can I do?

Go to him at the airport.

The simplicity of the response startled her.  She wanted to be with him.  She'd wanted that almost from the beginning.  The fact that he used to work for the Conti's---and how could she not trust his words after hearing Wesley and Willow on the phone?---almost seemed inconsequential.  After all, she'd been planning to marry into one of the most dangerous families in the city.  She'd been prepared to surround herself with a world of violence, all because it would lead her to her own vengeance, and she'd been willing to do that with a man who didn't make her half as happy as Spike did.

Airport then.

She was about to slip back out onto the sidewalk when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, hesitating to look down the alley and see the door open outward.  Her breath caught in her throat, and she had to stop herself from yelling his name out loud when she recognized the shock of white-blond hair.

Spike.

Buffy was rushing toward him then, covering half the distance even before he'd turned to see her.  Curses for whoever invented heels were quickly lost as she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a furious grip, choking back the sobs in her throat.

"Buffy?  Pet?"  Spike's arms came up around her, one hand reaching up to stroke the hair that tickled his nose.

She didn't even pull away to respond.  "Are you all right?" she asked.  "Please tell me you're all right."

"Fine.  Just…fine."  She heard him inhale the scent of her perfume, felt the tension ease from his body even as his grip tightened.  "God, are you really here?" he murmured.  "What…?  How did you…?"

"Willow called me.  I took a chance that I would catch you before…"  It dawned on her then just why he was there, and the fact that he'd emerged from the apartment building on his own.  Slowly, she pulled back to look up into his face.  "There are cops all over the place, Spike."

"I know.  Can't figure out how."

"Did you…you know…Mr. Wilkins?"

His mouth thinned.  "Red shouldn't have told you."

"She didn't.  Wes did."

That didn't make him any happier.  "Red shouldn't have told _Wes_, either."

"You didn't answer my question."

In spite of the sunshine of the day, the alley was dim, expanding his pupils so that his eyes appeared almost black.  Spike regarded her for a long moment.  "Yeah," he finally said.  "Does it matter?"

"It matters to those cops out front," Buffy replied, and was rewarded with a tilt of his head, the upward curve of the corner of his mouth.  "Which means we've got to get you out of here.  Now."

Grabbing his hand, she dragged him to the mouth of the alleyway, stopping before they could be seen by those in front of the apartment building.  "There," she said, pointing to Mickey's car.  "Get in the back seat and get your head down.  I'll be right behind you."  She glanced over her shoulder and saw the crowd milling around, none of them looking in their direction.  "Go now," she directed, giving Spike a little shove.

Mickey turned his head and grinned as the two blonds slid into the back seat.  "Not too late then," he commented.  He nodded at Spike.  "You always carry around this much excitement with you, pal?"

He answered with a grin, causing Buffy to just shake her head.  "As glad as I am that you two are such bosom buddies," she said, "we don't have time for this.  Getaway now.  Bonding later.  Drive, Mickey."

To be continued in Chapter 15: The Good, the Bad, and the Innocent…


	15. The Good, the Bad, and the Innocent

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike killed the Mayor but Trick, who had been following him, arranged for the cops to show up, making his getaway more difficult.  Wesley and Willow called Buffy to assure her that she was safe from Spike, and when she discovered that Spike was planning on using Faith to get to Wilkins, she and Mickey raced over to Faith's apartment building just in time to help Spike get out of there…

*************

Willow's hands were shaking as she pounded at the door.  "Spike!" she called out, desperation bringing a harsh rasp to her voice.  She paused, pressing her ear to the wood, and then started pounding again.  "Giles?" she tried this time.  "Xander?  Guys?  Let me in!"

Wesley hung back, watching as her unease deepened into panic, occasionally glancing down the alley at the street to see if anyone noticed the pair standing outside the warehouse door.  It wasn't a nice part of the city, and he'd been surprised when she'd navigated them there so easily, hopping from the cab almost before it had stopped moving to make a beeline for the almost-hidden side entrance.  He had followed after, but as the seconds ticked away and the silence poured through the cracks around the hinges, he witnessed Willow's anxiety pulling at her muscles as she slumped forward against the wall.

"They're not here," she mumbled.  "Where could they be?  Giles at least should be here."  She turned around, and he saw the tears glistening in her eyes.  "It was a set-up for all of us, I think.  They've killed Giles, and they've killed Spike, and I'll bet they even killed Xander, and they're going to come after me again, and…"  

Each phrase became more and more disjointed, hysteria hitching with the sobs that were starting to wrack her body.  Without hesitation, Wesley stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her to pull her against his chest.  "Nobody's going to hurt you," he murmured, stroking her hair.  "I already promised you that.  I'm not about to rescind my word at this point."

"But where are they?"  

Her words were muffled against his shirt, but she wasn't making any sign of moving.  Instead, his body flushed in heat as she stole her arms around his waist, clinging to him in more need than he'd ever seen her exhibit before, and he fought not to break out into a grin at the feel of it.  "I'm certain---," he started, but was cut off when she wrenched herself away.

Turning, he saw a familiar platinum head sauntering toward them from the mouth of the alley, not even faltering when Willow launched herself at him with a squeal.  The pair hugged for a moment before Spike set her down to the ground, his blue eyes flickering over her shoulder to meet Wesley's.  

"Got a bone to pick with you mate," he said coldly, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

He refused to show signs of being cowed by the other Englishman, in spite of the danger radiating from the man's body.  "And I believe I owe you an apology," Wes countered.  "I should never…"  He stopped when Buffy entered the alley, followed closely behind by Mickey.  The singer wasn't exactly who he was expecting to see, though her presence certainly explained the lack of Faith in Spike's custody at the moment.

Willow noticed her at the same time, and frowned as she looked up at her friend.  "What's going on, Spike?" she asked.  "What happened out there?"

"Inside," he replied tersely.  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a single key and walked toward the warehouse door, unlocking it and holding it open for them to enter.  When Wesley approached first, he stiffened, eyes narrowing into suspicious slits as he blocked the entrance.

"It's jake," Willow said, stepping between the two men.  "Wesley is just jake."

"Blighter told Buffy I was tryin' to kill her."

"And I'm very sorry for that," Wes said.  "I jumped to the wrong conclusion."

"I also seem to recall you showing up at Red's hotel, a little hot under the collar because you found out who I was."

"And again---."

Willow's hand on his arm silenced him.  "Wes saved my life, Spike," she said firmly.  "And if Buffy's the reason you're here in one piece and not in a body bag, then he saved your life too, because he's the one who convinced her you weren't out to blow her down.  Now.  Resolve face here.  He's coming in, and you two aren't going to fight, got it?"

With a roll of his eyes, Spike stepped aside, allowing the group to traipse into the dark interior, casting one last look down the alley before following after.  "Hang on," he said, and reached for where he remembered the light switch on the wall was.

They blinked as the overheads came on, revealing the dingy office that led to the rest of the building.  A dust-laden desk dominated the space, its only adornment a telephone, with rows of filing cabinets along two of the walls.  "Where the hell is Ripper?" Spike muttered as he began to prowl around the edges of the room.  "Hasn't anything this day gone right?"  He stopped in front of Willow and pointed to where Wesley was hovering near the door.  "And why is _he_ havin' to save your life?" he demanded.  "All you had to do was pick up a few things and meet me outside when I was all done.  What's so bloody dangerous about that?"

"Because it turns out that you weren't supposed to walk away from this job!"  Now that she knew he was all right, her own temper was flaring, twin spots of red high on her cheeks.  "That Lindsey McDonald decided to play follow the redhead and stop me from doing the eensy weensy part of this assignment you _let_ me do because apparently, it interfered with their plans!"

"Damn it!"  Spike's fingers curled into a fist and slammed into the front of the nearest filing cabinet, leaving a large dent in the metal even as it left the skin of his knuckles in bloody shreds.  "I knew those fucking lawyers were bad news."

At his outburst, Buffy instinctively stepped forward, but was stopped by Mickey's hand on her arm.  When she looked back at him, he gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his nod, warning her not to interfere.

"Are you going to tell me what happened with you now?" Willow asked.

Before Spike could answer, the phone on the desk began to ring, stilling everyone in the room.  On its second shrill cry, Wesley, who was nearest, picked up the receiver.  "Hello?" he asked tentatively.  He listened, and, "It's Wesley Wyndam-Pr…"  Another pause, accompanied by the darting of his eyes over to where Spike and Willow both stood.  "Both of them, actually."  After a brief moment, he held the phone out to the redhead.  "It's Mr. Giles.  He'd like to---."  He yanked it back when Spike snapped forward to grab it from him.

"What?" the blond challenged.  "Give me the bloody phone."

Wesley shook his head.  "He specifically requested to speak to Willow.  He said…he believed she would be…more rational."

Spike just stood there and glared at him for a long moment before snorting and stalking back to his position.  Tentatively, Wes offered the receiver back to Willow.

The first thing out of her mouth was, "Are you all right?"  She didn't say much throughout the conversation, merely punctuating it with the occasional, "Uh huh," and "Oh," and ending it with an, "I'll tell him," before replacing the phone back on its cradle.

"Well?" shot Spike.  "Where is he?"

"Back at his hotel.  With Xander.  It turns out that when they left earlier, Xander noticed he was being followed and double-backed until he caught up with Giles.  They tried losing the guys who were on their tail, but couldn't shake them, so they just gave up and went back so that they didn't give away the location of the warehouse."  She looked over at Wes.  "Looks like I wasn't the only one they wanted to keep an eye on."

He nodded and glanced at the other Englishman.  "I think it's time we shared stories," he said.

Tersely, Spike recounted the events of his day, carefully editing out the details of his phone call from Buffy, and then listened as Willow shared hers.  When all was said, they stood silent for a moment, digesting all the new information.

"I guess that cuts it then," Spike said.  "Job's done and we blow town as soon as possible."

Willow frowned.  "But---."

"No buts.  Ripper's got the plane tickets, our bags are already stashed."

"Wait a minute."  Wesley stepped forward.  "Faith can attest that you were in the apartment as can this other gentleman you can't identify.  The police were all over the apartment building within minutes of the shooting.  Do you honestly believe they won't have the airport covered?"  He shook his head.  "They won't leave you a viable escape route.  Buses, trains, planes.  They'll all be covered."

Spike shrugged.  "I've got the Desoto.  We'll just drive ourselves far enough out of town before we can hitch a faster ride home."

"No," Willow said.  "He's right.  This was a set-up from the start.  That lawyer made it pretty clear.  Whoever hired us did it with the express intention of making sure you went to the big house for this.  I think they've proven they won't give up until they get what they want."

"Did you not question why someone would go to the lengths of hiring someone living in _California_ to perform a hit in _New York_?" Wesley asked.

"They wanted the best.  I'm the best there is."

"No, you were the best there _was_.  There is a multitude of highly qualified triggermen in this town.  Freelancers, some who work for Conti, not to mention the ones who might work for the four or five other families that have a foothold in the power around here.  This was personal, and if you want my opinion---."

"I don't."

"---I think you'd be an utter fool to forget that fact," Wesley finished as if he'd not been interrupted.

"Why in hell do you care _what_ kind of fool I am?"

He answered without hesitation.  "Because it affects Willow.  Because someone tried hurting her today due to her involvement in this and I'm not going to sit back and watch you jeopardize her even further by behaving so irresponsibly."

"I just plugged your boss.  How do I know you're not just lookin' to bide your time so that you can call the coppers yourself?"

"And how do _I_ know you won't put a bullet in my back the minute the opportunity arises?"  Wes held himself firm under Spike's narrow-eyed scrutiny, refusing to look away.  Finally, Spike violently exhaled and shook his head.

"Damn trust issues," he muttered.  Louder, he said, "Fine.  Point taken.  So the game now is find out who set me up and take them out.  I can do that."

"_We_ can do that," Willow said.

"Right.  We.  We should start with that shyster.  You said you left him tied up at Heaven?"  At her nod, he said, "Get Ripper on the horn.  Fill him and Harris in on what's goin' on.  Then the three of you are goin' to have to find new places to stay---."

"If you don't mind my saying," Wesley interrupted.  "I think Willow is best served remaining in her position at the club.  I can help keep an eye on her then, and she can still be in a position to gather information for you."

"I like that," Spike said.  "Now, I just need to sort a place for me."

From behind all of them, Mickey cleared his throat.  "If you want," he said, once he had their attention, "I'd be more than happy to help out.  As payment for helping me with Bobby the Bear."

Though he nodded his agreement to the sense in the offer, Spike's gaze was riveted to the blonde at Mickey's side, his face solemn.  "What about you, Buffy?" he asked quietly.  "Where do you see yourself fittin' into this wonderful, fucked up, mess I've made?"

She took a long time to respond, but the anticipation of the others as they awaited her response left Wesley more than aware that he was the only one in the room who wasn't completely in tune with whatever this shifting dynamic was between her and Spike.  It explained why she'd been so rattled by his announcement that morning, but how something could've developed so rapidly between the pair, he had absolutely no clue.

"If I know where you are, they can get to you through me," she finally said.  She went on, ignoring the flaring of anger in the blue depths of his eyes.  "I'm still a part of the Wilkins family in a way.  I have to maintain that until we get you in the clear."

"Which means you're goin' back to Heaven, doesn't it?"  The rest of it went unspoken, but all of them---even Wes---knew what he wasn't saying.  

_And back to Angel_.

"I think it's best."

He just stood there, staring at her, his hands balled into fists at his side, before he stuffed them into his pockets and marched for the door.  Without a word, he yanked it open and stormed out into the sunshine, leaving the rest of them speechless.

"I should get out there before he rips one of the doors off my car," Mickey said with an apologetic smile to Buffy as he hurried after Spike.

Willow's eyes were kind as she reached out and touched the blonde's shoulder.  "He's just a little overwhelmed right now," she said softly.  "He'll come around."

"I should've trusted him," Buffy said.  "Maybe then…"  She sighed, shaking her head.  "I'm too tired to think about this right now.  I don't suppose you guys would give me a lift back to my apartment, would you?  I seem to have lost my ride."

"Sure," Willow said.  "We'll share a cab.  You should really get some sleep."

As he followed the two women out of the warehouse, Wesley's thoughts were a jumble.  What exactly had he missed in this development between Buffy and Spike?  She acted as if _he _was the boyfriend, not Angel, and his territorial behavior about her whereabouts exhibited the same features.  He would have to make sure and ask Willow once they were alone.

*************

Her brown eyes flashed as she stared up at the cop, wishing that she could just slap the stolid Neanderthal into the next century.  Christ, when were they going to make hearing tests required for these losers? Faith thought irritably.  "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred fucking times," she said, her voice deceptively low.  "The guy who shot Richard was William.  The Bloody.  Rook.  R.  O.  O.  K.  You want me to draw you a picture, too?"

"Look, I understand you're distraught, but really, there's no need for that kind of language, Miss---."

"It's Faith.  I've told you _that_, too.  More than fucking once."  She shook her head, pacing around the bed, wishing that he would just stop blocking the door to the living room and let her out of there.  "Jesus, if you can't even remember that, how the hell can I expect you to remember the name of the bastard you need to get out there and find?  Do you even know _your_ name?"

He sighed.  "It's Officer Finn," he said patiently.  "And this will go much smoother if you would just calm down and finish answering my questions."

She stopped before him and put her hands on her hips, well aware that her nightgown was cut dangerously low and clung to her in ways that had distracted even Spike for a second.  "I think I want to talk to whoever's in charge of this little charade," she said.

"Then that would be me," he replied, but his gaze never left her face.

Disappointment darkened her features.  "Well, isn't that just grand.  I get tied up, gagged, and forced to listen as my lover gets shot, and you're tellin' me I'm stuck with Mr. Smith to see this out?"

"It's Finn.  I told you that."

"I meant Mr. Smith, as in the movie character, you dumb mug."  She waited for some sign of recognition but got none.  "With Jimmy Stewart?"  Still nothing.  Faith rolled her eyes and started pacing again.  "Great.  Just fucking great," she muttered.

Officer Finn looked back down at his pad, eyes scanning his notes.  "So, the doorman tells us that the colored fella we found unconscious out in the living room spent most of the morning hanging around downstairs.  Do you know if he was working with Rook?  Or what his name was?"

"No, and no.  Kind of hard to be chatting him up if I'm tied to a four-poster, now isn't it?"

"And you didn't actually see Rook shoot Mr. Wilkins?"

"Why is this concept of being me tied to a bed so hard for you to understand?  I saw him knock Richard out.  I saw him take a pillow from the bed.  I saw him drag him into the other room---."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know, why don't you ask him?  Like, when you _arrest_ him?"  She flopped onto the chaise, her nightgown riding up her legs, exposing the expanse of her thighs to his view.

Finn snapped his pad shut.  "I think it would be good for you to talk to someone down at the precinct."  When her mouth opened to argue, he held up his hands to cut her off.  "She's not really a cop.  I mean, she is, but Kate specializes in helping the women who've been involved in violent crimes.  She can help you sort through some of your feelings regarding what's happened today."  Hurriedly, he scribbled down a name on a piece of paper and handed it over to her.  "I suggest you call her.  She's very good at what she does." 

Deliberately, Faith tucked the note into her cleavage, and smiled when Finn blushed.  It disappeared, though, when he stepped into the outer room.  Idiots, she thought.  All of them.  They're never going to catch Spike if they spend all their time with their little pads up their asses.  Didn't matter, though.

If they didn't want to do it, then she'd just do their job for them.

*************

Riley's face was grim as he emerged from the bedroom, his gaze only cursorily darting over the other police officers in the room before catching the attention of his partner.

"That one's got a mouth on her," Graham Miller said, an amused smile on his face.  "I think they could probably hear her downstairs."

"Yeah," Riley agreed.  "Too bad she's not telling me anything useful."

"Are you kidding?  We've got the goods on William Rook.  That's pretty damn useful if you ask me.  You just don't get it because he was before your time.  We never could pin anything on the bastard.  Having this fall into our laps was a stroke of luck."

"We only have the goods if that colored fella will testify or if forensics comes back with something."  He frowned, looking around the room.  "Where'd he go?  Did you guys already get his statement?"

Miller joined him, sweeping his gaze around before settling on a uniformed cop placing tape on the floor where the body had been found.  "Hey, Meers, I thought I told you to keep an eye on that guy.  Where is he?"

The dark-haired officer looked up, his eyes wide.  "Did you?  I don't remember.  I haven't seen him since I started bagging evidence."

"Great," Riley muttered.  He waved another cop over.  "Go find the other witness.  I need to talk to him."  To Graham, he said, "Just what I need.  A missing eyewitness and some mysterious hitman roaming my streets.  You know, sometimes I really miss Iowa.  Life was much simpler there."

Graham laughed.  "Simple is boring, my friend.  Enjoy the big city fun while you're still standing to do it."

*************

Leaning against the door jamb, Wesley sighed as his blue eyes swept over the interior of Buffy's dressing room.  He didn't know why he was surprised.  The way the past twenty-four hours had been going, the fact that the lawyer he'd left tied up and the body of the man he'd killed were now both missing should've been expected.  There wasn't even any blood on the floor to indicate that anything had ever been there.  Somehow, some way, McDonald had gotten out with all of the evidence that he'd ever been there in the first place.

Part of that was good news.  Now, Wes didn't have to worry about how he was going to get rid of the body himself.  Though having a corpse around Heaven was hardly anything new, one that was dead because of his hand was most definitely a novelty, and one that would never have escaped Angel's attention.  He wouldn't have been reprimanded, but things would've most definitely changed for him around the family.  Considering the events of the day, they still might.

Buffy had been silent all the way to her apartment, barely even saying good-bye when she finally climbed out of the car.  Once they were alone, Wesley had tried to press Willow for details, but she'd been evasive, claiming ignorance on any of the specifics.

"Ask Buffy," she'd said.  "Or Spike.  Although he might not take it the best way, so…ask Buffy."

He didn't want to ask Buffy.  He wanted to know what the hell was going on.  It was bad enough he was as deep in this as he was, but he'd been willing to overlook that for Willow's sake.  He just wasn't interested in becoming some casualty because Spike couldn't keep his dick in his pants.

Willow.  God, what the hell was he doing?  Sure, she was beautiful.  Smart.  Resourceful.  Loyal.  Working for a fugitive from justice.  At this very minute, holed up in a hotel room with two other men who were trying to protect that same fugitive.  He was putting his entire career on the line by getting involved with her, and yet he couldn't stop himself.  Something about her…something he recognized.  She'd be valuable as an ally after this was all over, though it wasn't as an ally he wanted her.  

He'd made no more advances toward her since that kiss in her room last night.  Or this morning, depending on how he looked at it.  Not that he didn't want to.  

Seeing her with the gun.  So sure, and yet so vulnerable.  

Thinking she was going to get hurt.  How it had made him want to tear her attackers, limb from limb.

The smell of her perfume every time she walked by him.

God, he had it bad.

With a deep sigh, he turned away from the door and was startled to see Angel at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him.  

"I've been trying to find you," Angel said.  "I just got a call from the police."

"Oh?  Is something wrong?"  Better to feign ignorance.  No way should anybody within the family know that he had any connection to the murder.

"Someone plugged my father over at Faith's this afternoon."  His face was impassive, his eyes dark.  "They think it was some guy named William Rook."

"I'm not familiar with that name."

"Before your time.  He used to be a hatchetman for the Conti's.  I just wanted you to know, things aren't going to change around here.  Well, except for the fact that I'm the one in charge of everything now.  But I still want you to be the boss around Heaven.  You do too good a job for me to be losing you over something like this."

Wesley smiled.  "Thank you.  That's…good to know."

Nodding, Angel had half-disappeared into the darkness before he stopped and looked back up at him.  "Hey, did you ever find anything out on that Xander Harris like I asked you to?"

Ignoring the chill that settled over him, Wes casually began his descent down the stairs.  "I'm still working on that.  I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

"You do that," Angel replied, and walked out into the front of the club.

Hurriedly, Wesley strode to his office, closing the door behind him before silently slipping the lock.  Now was the time for what he'd been dreading ever since the warehouse, but he knew it had to be done.  No more avoiding it.

His fingers dialed the number from memory, though it had been months since he'd had the need to do so.  When her voice came over the line, he slumped back into his chair, pulling his glasses off and tossing them onto the desk so that he could rub tiredly at his eyes.

"Jenny Calendar.  Can I help you?" she said.

"Hey there, gorgeous.  How's my favorite long-distance assistant?"

There was a lengthy silence, the crackling of the miles between them creating static in the connection.  "Wes?" she finally asked.

"You have another boss?  Don't tell me you're moonlighting on me."

"Not like it would be hard.  Most of the department thinks you're dead, remember?"

He did.  It had been his idea.  Bury him inside the Wilkins family so that finding out their secrets would be simpler.  If he'd only known…

"Does this mean you don't feel like talking to your old pal?  My feelings are hurt, Jenny."

She laughed.  "I've always got time for you, Wes.  You know that."  Pause.  "Does this call mean you're on your way back to D.C.?"

Damn it.  She knew.  "I'd forgotten how quickly the department works.  That certainly didn't take you long to find out."

"But you're coming back, right?  The Mayor's dead.  The local cops know who did it.  What's there for you to do there any more?"

"The family's still active.  Angel's in charge now.  There's still work for me here."  He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to ask next.  "Is…Rook a big fish?" he asked.  "I didn't know the name."

"Are you kidding?"  Jenny's voice was excited, and he could hear the rustle of paper.  "Do you know how many guys around here are shitting themselves because he's getting nailed by the local police and not by us?  He's done everything, Wes.  Here, there, everywhere.  And nobody has ever been able to make anything stick.  This is big time news.  The whole department's buzzing."  He could almost hear her thinking.  "You…don't…_know _anything about Rook, do you?" she asked.

"No," he lied.  "I've only just heard about the shooting."  He took a deep breath to silence the screaming inside his head.  "I think this is going to…shake things up around here," Wesley continued.  "Be prepared for me to contact you again.  Very soon."

"I'm always here for you.  You know that."

Hanging up the phone, he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes against the ache that was starting to throb in his temples.  What the hell was he getting himself into?

To be continued in Chapter 16: The Girl Who Came Back…


	16. The Girl Who Came Back

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike has decided to stick around NYC to try and figure out who set him up, Buffy has returned to the Wilkins fold to try and maintain appearances, while Wesley is trying to figure out how balance his career with his feelings and involvement with Willow…

*************

Fifteen minutes.  That's all she got for her break.  She hadn't actually done anything with it her first two nights on the job, but tonight, Willow had other plans.  

She had arrived at Heaven a scant ten minutes before she was due to start.  Knocking at Wesley's office had yielded no response, so when she'd spotted him talking with Jonathan near the main entrance, she had waited patiently for him to finish so that she could speak to him.  The opportunity never really came.  Though he shot her a cursory smile, he'd followed his assistant back to the rear of the club, leaving her standing there, alone and confused and wondering what in hell had just happened.

She already knew that the lawyer had gone missing; Giles and Xander were working on locating him.  But that didn't explain why Wesley was acting so distant around her.  Maybe it's just because of the mood with the other employees, she rationalized as she slipped out of her slippers and back into her heels.  Frankly, she was getting the impression that everyone was surprised and more than a little dismayed that Angel had insisted business ran as usual, even though news of his father's death had spread like wildfire.  Everyone was on tenterhooks, a sobriety dampening the air before one even stepped through the front door.  Even Buffy's set was more serious than it had been the last two times she'd heard the blonde sing.

It didn't make her heart beat any slower, though, as she hurried to his office.  Please be there, please be there, she thought.  You're the one who suggested I work as normal.  Don't bail on me now.

He answered on her very first knock, and when Willow pushed open the door, she was greeted with the sight of him sitting behind his desk, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up as he scribbled in the ledger before him.  A half-full tumbler of whiskey rested just off to his side, and she felt her mouth go dry as the potent scent of his aftershave assaulted her senses.

"Got a sec?" she asked, and inwardly grimaced at how squeaky her voice sounded.

Wesley started as soon as she spoke, his head jerking up to see her standing framed in the doorway.  There was no mistaking the flagrant dance of emotions that rippled across his face, and Willow felt herself blush under his scrutiny, wishing she had more than the two evening dresses and wasn't forced to wear the green one in which she'd first met him.  He probably already regrets getting involved, she thought.  He's had time to think about what's happened, and now he's regretting it, and wondering what he ever saw in me, and he's probably getting ready to go to the police and snitch on us, and why isn't he answering me yet?

She saw him swallow once, and then again, before actually clearing his throat, his blue eyes darkening before returning to the pages in front of him.  "Of course," he finally said.  "But only a few minutes."

Quietly, Willow eased the door shut.  He wasn't looking at her.  Not a good sign.  "Really, if it's a bother, I can come back after we close," she said.  "You've probably had your fill of seeing me today, anyway."

Each word she uttered seemed to deflate him, until by the time she was done talking, Wesley had rested his pen onto the desk and looked up at her again.  "Hardly," he said softly.  His gaze flickered to the chair before returning to meet her wide eyes.  "Is this a standing sort of discussion or would you like to have a seat?" he asked.

She folded her hands awkwardly in her lap as she perched herself on the edge of the chair.  She hadn't been this uncomfortable in his presence in, well, _ever_.  All thoughts of filling him in on what had been discussed with Giles and Xander vanished in the face of reality, and she couldn't stop the question from tumbling out of her mouth.

"Are you OK?" Willow asked.  "You're not…mad at me, are you?"

"Now, why would I be mad at you?"

"Because of the…non-talkiness, and…you just seem…avoidy right now.  Did I do something?"

"Do _you_ think you've done something?"

Willow frowned.  "OK, not that I'm all gung ho for a good old Socratic method session, but you answering all my questions with more questions isn't helping me here.  Or is all this just your polite way of saying, 'Nice to know you.  Have a good life.  Make sure you drop me a line from the big house because I plan on turning you and your friends in.'"

"Why would I…"  He stopped, realizing he had been about to answer her with another question.  Taking a deep breath, Wesley stood and crossed to the front of the desk, sitting on the edge so that he could look at her without anything between them.  "Today has been very…trying," he said.  "My apologies if I seem out of sorts.  But, trust me when I tell you, I will _not_ be informing the city police about your involvement in Rook's adventure today.  Nor will I be turning him over to them myself.  I'm not about to let any harm befall you, Willow.  I meant that when I told you."

Her exhalation was one of relief, and she ventured her first smile to him since entering his office.  "Good, good.  Not that I thought you would," she was quick to add, "but, you know, you've been …you're right.  It's just been a long day."

"What arrangements have been made?"

"Giles is convinced our best shot at finding out who's behind this is Lindsey McDonald, so they're concentrating on finding him.  As soon as he and Xander get settled into their new places tonight, they're going to do what they can to give him the buzz.  He's legit.  He shouldn't be that hard to find."

"And you?  Have you found someplace else to stay yet?"

She blushed, shaking her head.  "We got so wrapped up in bouncing theories back and forth that I barely had enough time to get dressed, let alone move.  I'm going to do it in the morning."

Wesley's frown was immediate.  "That can't be a plan the others have agreed to," he said.  "It leaves you in far too much danger.  They came after you once, they could very well do it again."

"Well…"  Her flush deepened, and Willow ducked her head to avoid meeting his gaze.  "They kind of, sort of, think that I'm going to spend the night with Buffy.  I told them I'd hit her up for a bed."

"You must realize that she's most likely going to have family obligations, don't you?  Angel has been quite…focused today."

She looked up then, anxious to convince him that it was all right.  "But I've got my gun," she assured.  "And now that I know someone might be not so friendly, I should be just jake at my place for a few hours.  Really."

"And what if that not so friendly someone is already in your room when you get there?" Wesley countered.  "What then?"

She had no reply to that, and just looked at him, green eyes luminous.

Don't do it, his head warned as he contemplated his next words.  You've been sitting in here, writing out list after list of the pros and cons of getting yourself in deeper with this dame, and every single one of them has told you the exact same thing.  Don't do it.  

His heart, however, was another matter.  He'd been so determined to play it aloof, to keep her at arm's length until he either reached a definitive answer or she left town.  Then, finding out what he had in his search for more answers…every custodial instinct he possessed had been drawn to the fore, making it impossible for him to continue maintaining the distance once she'd started speaking.  It certainly didn't help that the privacy of his office lent him an artificial haven in which to lower his guard and see the vulnerable yet strong woman standing before him as merely that, and not some potential threat to everything he'd worked for.

"I promised Spike I'd protect you," Wes said.  "I can't do that if you refuse to help yourself."  He rushed on before she could interrupt him, or before he lost his own nerve.  "Perhaps it would be wisest if you were to stay at my place tonight.  It's quite comfortable, and I assure you, you'd be perfectly safe"

Willow's eyes widened.  The offer was the last thing she'd expected, and though the temptation to accept it was almost overwhelming, propriety reared its head and dragged her to her feet.  "I-I-I can't," she stuttered.  "It…wouldn't be right."

As she tried to slide past him, Wesley's hand shot out and grabbed her elbow, staying her from exiting.  "Don't be a fool," he said, standing to tower above her.  When she looked back at his face, she was startled by the intensity of his eyes on her, vibrant and glistening in blue.  "You go home tonight alone," he continued, "and that little pea shooter of yours will be useless.  These people after Spike.  They mean business.  They don't care who gets hurt, or how it happens.  You're just an…inconvenience to them.  And I refuse to be the one responsible for having to tell your friends, 'Ever so sorry but she was stubborn as a mule and I'm afraid you'll have to collect her body from the city morgue.'"

"How do you…we don't _know_ who's after Spike.  How can _you_ possibly know?"

His mouth tightened.  "I don't.  I was referring to Wolfram and Hart."  At her obvious surprise, he explained, "You do realize that I'm just as much of a target as you are now, don't you?  Mr. McDonald escaped and he's more than aware that I killed one of his men.  That places me in just as much jeopardy as you, or your friends, although perhaps not Spike."

She hadn't realized.  She'd been so wrapped up in the repercussions of the day's events on herself and the others that she'd totally overlooked just how much Wesley had committed himself to this by stabbing Lindsey's associate.  The tension that had been wound through her body suddenly dissipated as she stepped back toward him, closing the gap between their torsos.  "I'm so sorry," Willow said.  "I wasn't…I didn't…"

His grip on her relaxed, and he eased himself back to perch again on the desk.  "It's all right," he assured.  "You've been more than distracted today, and I've had years more experience in dealing with these types of scenarios than you have.  When I realized Mr. McDonald was gone, I took the liberty to do some digging around on his firm.  I didn't get much, but I must say, you've elected to work for a rather…colorful organization, to say the least.  Most of their clientele is quite notorious."

"We didn't elect.  We were co-opted, remember?  Something about a little unfriendly squeeze?"  It didn't escape her attention that he was still touching her.  In fact, his thumb had begun an almost hypnotic circling of her inner elbow, inveigling her upper body to sway closer to his.  Willow could feel the shivers racing up and down her spine, and swallowed in an attempt to clear its tightness.  Steady on, she thought.  You're only on your break here, and you still have no idea what he has in mind.  OK, well, you do, but considering he hasn't really made any direct move since kissing you, you have to keep a level head.

Somewhere deep inside, a little voice snickered.  _Uh huh_, it said._  Because inviting you to stay at his place tonight isn't direct at all.  Right._

"I'm not asking you to share the sordid details of whatever it is they're holding over your head," Wesley said.  "I _am_ asking that you allow me the opportunity to maintain some sort of presence within your investigation.  What you find out could very well affect me, too."

His request was legitimate, and they both knew it.  "I guess…I _did_ kind of…drag you into this whole mess," she said.  "But…staying at your house?  I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Actually, it's a flat.  A rather nice one.  With _two_ bedrooms."  When she didn't respond right away, Wes sighed, and dropped his hands to his side.  "I thought you trusted me, Willow," he said.  "My offer is perfectly honorable.  And it would only be for the one night…right?"

The stab of disappointment surprised her.  One night.  She would be looking for somewhere else to stay first thing in the morning.  And he had two bedrooms.  Why was she being such a prude about this?

Because one night didn't seem like nearly enough.

"You don't think it would get complicated?" Willow asked.  "I mean, it _was_ just last night we were standing in here, talking about…me liking you and you liking me.  Unless that's all changed now, because if it has?  I totally understand."  No, she didn't, but no way was she going to be slapped around like an unwanted puppy if everything had changed for him in the last twenty-four hours.

He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.  "I'd be lying if I said it doesn't make things more difficult," he said.  "Because it does.  My…feelings for you, I mean.  Because they're still there.  Very much so."

What was she supposed to say to that?  The pleased smile that creased her face conveyed her relief at his admission, but Willow quickly tempered her enthusiasm, hesitant to shatter the renewed faith between them.  "Mine are still there, too.  Although, there's kind of a hop, skip, and a jump feeling going on in my stomach right about now.  I'm not exactly the queen of experience when it comes to this kind of thing."

Her naivete still managed to charm him, in spite of the whirlwind of his other emotions. "Lucky me then," he murmured.  His gaze flickered to her mouth, his own softening, and the desire to kiss her again swelled inside his chest.  It didn't help that she looked utterly scrumptious in her gown, or that the smattering of freckles across her nose made her seem more real than if she'd been pressed into him.  And _those_ kind of thoughts certainly weren't helping him maintain his self-control.

"Have you eaten?"

His question took her by surprise.  It had looked so much like he was going to kiss her again, and she'd been preparing herself for the feel of his lips against hers, trying to contain the shivers that wanted to take over her flesh.  Now, though, his eyes were back on hers, and he was leaning back slightly, separating their bodies further to scrutinize her reaction.

"Does tea count?" she asked with a blush.  Willow frowned as he quickly stood and walked past her to the doorway, watching as he opened it and called out for Jonathan.

The small assistant immediately popped up.  "Yes, sir?"

"Miss Rosenberg is unwell," Wesley said.  "I'm escorting her home so that she can rest.  Could you please make arrangements so that the coat room is covered?"

Jonathan's eyes jumped to the redhead, seeing her flushed cheeks and the slight sway in her body as she held tightly to the edge of the desk.  "You didn't eat any of the shrimp from the kitchen, did you?" he asked her in a rush.  "Because Stefano swore to me they were still good."

"Oh, no," she managed.  "I'm just…"  She looked at Wesley quickly for confirmation and saw the almost imperceptible nod of his head.  "…unwell," she finished, opting for the word he'd originally used.

"I won't be returning after I've dropped Miss Rosenberg off," Wes continued.  "I'll take the books with me.  If you need me, you can reach me at home.  That means you're in charge, Mr. Levinson.  I expect you can handle that?"

The small man straightened with pride.  "Oh, of course, sir," he vowed, and scurried back out into the club.

When the door was shut again, Willow said, "What was that all about?  Why am I going home?"

"Well, you need to pack, first of all.  And considering the day you've had, I'm assuming the sooner you get some sleep, the happier you're going to be.  And of course, there's food."  He strode behind his desk, grabbing his jacket to slip it on, oblivious to the fact that she was watching him in utter confusion.  "I'm sure we can arrange some sort of late supper.  That's one thing I do love about this city.  No matter the time of day, you can always find something to eat."  

He was halfway to the door before he realized she wasn't behind him and stopped to look back at her quizzically, adjusting the ledgers underneath his arm.

"Did I miss a memo or something?" Willow asked.  "When did we decide what's going on?"

Wesley's smile was more relaxed than she'd seen all night, putting her at ease even if she didn't understand exactly where it was coming from.  "We both know my flat is the best solution," he said.  "And we both want you there.  Now, we can stand around here and argue some more while you try to hide behind some modicum of propriety, which frankly, is absolutely charming, or we can just agree to agree and get out of here so that we have more time to eat and properly discuss what exactly we've both learned today."   He took a deep breath, hoping his directness wouldn't backfire on him.  Once his decision had been made, following its path had been simple.

Heart one, head zero.

She hesitated only a moment longer.  If anything, she was logical and his argument made perfect sense.  Besides, he'd called her charming.  How could she even think straight after that?

"I don't suppose you know a good, all-night deli?" she asked as she approached him.  "Sandwiches are really the best for this kind of research party.  No worries about it getting yucky if it sits too long.  Unless of course you get something with loads of mayo.  Then…"  Though she continued talking, her voice faded as she went out the door, and Wesley shook his head as he slipped out after her.

It was most definitely going to be an interesting night.

*************

She'd never been so glad to finish a set in her life.  The club had been packed, but most of the crowd were friends of the family, showing up to pay Angel their respects and to offer their support in making the transition a clean one.  From her place onstage, Buffy had watched as he'd held court at a table in the back of the room, barely paying her any notice as she performed, preening and smiling as if his father hadn't been killed that very afternoon.

She was surprised then, when he materialized before her, blocking her path to her dressing room.  "I'll only be a few minutes," Buffy said tiredly.  "Let me just freshen up and I'll be right out."  It wasn't what she really wanted, of course.  Coming back to Heaven and pretend that everything was the same when it really, really wasn't had been almost as hard as watching Spike bolt from the warehouse, the hurt and betrayal etched across his face.  But, it was for the best she knew.  Until he was completely safe, it wouldn't do to draw unnecessary attention to the Wilkins family by disappearing.  There was going to be enough police around as it was.

"No," Angel said.

"No what?  You don't want me to freshen up?"

"No, I don't want you to come out."  He pulled her into the shadows under the stairs, giving them just a little more privacy from the scurrying employees backstage.  "The fuzz is doing a drive-by later on and I don't want you around for that.  They've put that Finn in charge of the investigation and you know how he gets around you.  I don't like it."

Buffy smiled.  "He's just a fan, Angel."

"And he's also a cop, dollface.  You want him to start nosing around in your past?  You think he'll be such a fan once he finds out about California?"

She paled at his reference.  They didn't talk about it these days.  Though the specter of the fire and everything else shadowed her every waking moment, Buffy had long ago stopped bringing it up around her fiancé, knowing his propensity for wanting to dismiss the whole thing and pretend it never really happened.  Besides, no matter what he said, he always reminded her of just how much of it was her fault, and she didn't need any more shame in her head than what she heaped there already.

"Why would he do that?" she asked.  "I didn't have anything to do with it."  Panic was beginning to set in.  This was exactly why she'd told Spike she needed to be here.  Appearances.  Nothing could lead back to him.  If she was the reason he ended up getting caught, she'd never forgive herself.

"Normal cops wouldn't," he agreed.  "But this is Finn.  By-the-book Finn?  He's so clean, he squeaks.  Plus, with him having such a thing for you, this'll give him an excuse to cozy up when he doesn't need to.  And no one puts you on a pedestal but me, got it?"  His hand went around her waist, yanking her tightly against him.  The kiss he gave her was bruising, possessive, and it was all Buffy could do not to struggle against his hulking frame.  Only the cold steel of his gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers was able to freeze her muscles.

"So…what do you want me to do?" she queried breathlessly when he finally let her go.  "I'm not hiding in my dressing room all night."

"Go home.  Don't answer the door for anybody.  Just lay it low until either after the funeral or they nail Rook."  He tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.  "I'm afraid I won't be around much until this all dies down," Angel added.  "I've gotta make a strong show of it with taking over.  One sign of weakness and everyone'll be all over me.  You understand, right?"

She nodded.  This actually made things easier.  Lay low.  She was good at that.

Buffy watched for a moment as he strode confidently away, then climbed the stairs to her dressing room.  She was lost in thought when she pushed the door open, but jolted out of it when she saw Faith sitting at her dressing table, fixing her face in the mirror.

"Hey there, B," the brunette said as she caught her eye in the reflection.

She didn't look like someone who'd spent the afternoon listening to her lover get killed and then undergoing police interrogation.  Dressed immaculately in a black crocheted dress that clung to her curves so that it almost looked painted on, there weren't even shadows under her eyes indicating any stress.  Buffy's gaze darted to her wrists, noting the thick bracelets that she was sure covered the marks left over from the rope Spike had tied her up with, and then remembered she wasn't supposed to know that detail.

"I didn't expect to see you here tonight," she said, crossing to the screen to begin changing.  "I'm so sorry to hear about what happened."

"The luck of the draw, I guess," Faith replied.  Her eyes followed the blonde in the mirror.  "It's not like I didn't know that was a risk when Richard and I hooked up.  He played a dangerous game.  He just lost this time."

There was an artificiality to her voice that bothered Buffy, but behind the screen, she wasn't able to see the look on her face to read her accurately.  Too bright.  Too chipper.  Not the voice of a woman who'd lost the man she loved.  Maybe she didn't love him, she reasoned.  Except she knew that wasn't true.  In spite of her bravado and blatant flirtations with other men, Buffy knew that Faith was more devoted to Richard than anyone else in his life.  This should've crushed her.

"Still…I _am_ sorry.  If there's anything I can do, you'll let me know, right?"

"Actually, that's why I'm here."  Faith's head popped around the side of the screen, startling Buffy into dropping the blouse she'd been about to slip on.  "Those idiot cops are never going to catch the guy who did it.  He's too smart for them.  Hell, they had half their squad in the fucking building and he still managed to make a clean sneak of it.  What chance have they got now that he's loose in the city?"

"Angel says that Officer Finn is in charge---."

Faith laughed derisively.  "Right.  Like that's supposed to make me feel better.  The asshole lost his other eyewitness.  You think he's going to nail Spike?"

Buffy visibly started at her use of his nickname, an action that didn't go unnoticed by the other woman.  Faith's smile turned into a sneer.

"Betcha didn't know Blondie and I were on such friendly terms, did you, B?" she asked, and this time all mirth was stripped from her face, leaving behind a glittering mask of anger and hurt.  "Did he tell you he tied me up?  I offered him a little show but he turned me down.  After Drusilla Conti, I would've thought he had a soft spot for brunettes.  But no.  Turns out he's only got you on the brain.  Didn't stop him from shooting Richard, though."

There were tears now, shining unshed in the brown, but Buffy forced herself to try and remain neutral.  "I don't know what you're talking about, Faith," she said.

"Stop the act.  I know Rook's got a thing for you.  And you obviously knew him last night.  So, I'm only going to ask this once, friend to friend, B.  Tell me where he's at.  He and me got a score to settle."

 Buffy concentrated on her dressing, perching herself on the edge of her stool as she rolled her stockings up over her legs.  Time to test that loyalty she vowed to Spike, she thought.  Although, not really very hard here.

"I don't _know_ where he is, Faith," she said calmly.  "So we had one dance.  So what?  It's not my fault he's a fan.  And if you're so sure I'm the way to get to him, why aren't you talking to Angel?  Or to Officer Finn?  Because you're grasping at straws, that's why.  You're hurt, and grieving, and you're feeling helpless, but I'm not the one who can help you with this."  She stood up and looked the other woman in the eye.  "Besides, think about it.  He's a hired gun.  If the cops are right and he did do it, all he actually did was pull the trigger.  Someone else was the one who set it all up.  _That's_ who you should be angry at."

For a moment, Faith faltered, tiny lines forming between her perfect brows as her red lips set into a frown.  "You're making a mistake," she finally said, and backed away.  "William Rook is bad news.  Next time you see him, try asking him about why he left New York in the first place.  See if the picture he paints for you is really as rosy as you want to believe.  But take my word for it, it'll be red.  Bloody red.  He's the Pied fucking Piper, except instead of the kiddies, he's got death following him around."  She paused and reached for the purse she'd left on the dressing table.  "Give me a call when you've opened your eyes, B.  Maybe if you ask real nice, I'll let you help me settle the score."

And with that, she was gone.

*************

Leaning heavily against the closed door, Faith closed her eyes as she waited for the hammering of her heart to ease.  She hated having to do this to the other girl, but going to Buffy had seemed like her best shot.  Too bad she wasn't going to talk.  Either she was telling the truth, or she was so dizzy for Rook that she wasn't going to betray him.  That garnered a begrudging respect from her---just another reason why she liked Buffy so much---but it didn't do her any good in finding Spike.

One thing she'd said, though, stuck out.  Spike didn't kill for fun.  He killed for profit, or defense, or revenge.  Defense was out.  He'd been planning on killing Richard as soon as he'd knocked at her door.  That left revenge or money.

Revenge was harder to define, but the fact of the matter was, he'd been out of town for years.  What could've happened that would motivate him to come after him now?  All his affiliations had been with Conti prior to leaving.  The Wilkins family wasn't nearly as powerful then as they were now.  Plus, he'd said he was working for himself now.  That made the most obvious choice money.  A hired hit.

If that was the case, she had a good idea who was behind it, but no way could she say anything, not if she wanted to stay alive herself.  Someone else would have to find it out for sure, and someone else would have to do something about it, because that kind of power exceeded Faith's own resources.  One on one, she could do.  Maybe even two or three on one.  But if she was right about who it was, she would be seriously outnumbered, and if anything, she wasn't stupid.  She would survive this.  That's what she did.

She just had to figure out who she could coax into finding out the whole story.

************

He heard her voice before he opened his eyes, and lay as still as he could as he strained to hear her conversation.

"Don't worry, Mr. Trick.  You can assure your boss that our firm is more than ahead of the ball on this.  Lindsey's error today will be corrected and you can count on Rook being behind bars as soon as possible."  Pause.  "Again, our sincerest apologies, but casualties really are to be expected in an operation of this magnitude.  Not only is Rook extremely dangerous, but he's proving much more wily than I think even you anticipated.  Didn't he escape from the building _you_ were watching today?"  

Lindsey knew if he looked, she'd be wearing that smug smile that made him want to wrap his hands around her throat.  So damn sure of herself.  So determined to take over his position in the company.  Over his dead body.  For some reason, though, he didn't think she'd actually have a problem with that stipulation.

When the click of the telephone being replaced in its cradle reached his ear, Lindsey opened his eyes, seeing her standing at the other end of the hotel suite, an array of files open on the desk before her.  "When did you get here, Lilah?" he croaked, his voice raspy from hours of disuse.

She wasn't surprised by his sudden awakening.  "Took you long enough," she said, ignoring his question.  "You've been unconscious ever since I got you out of that club.  That must've been some knock you took."

Gingerly, he sat up, wincing at the pain in his head.  "I've had worse," he lied.  "And you haven't answered me.  Did Holland send you out here to keep an eye on me?"

Lilah shook her head.  "Holland was just worried about you.  You've been so distracted lately, he just wanted to make sure that you didn't have any problems staying focused.  You weren't even supposed to know that I was here.  Well, unless you screwed up.  Which you did."

He felt his stomach drop.  "Did the hit not happen?"

"No, it happened.  The Mayor is very much dead."

"Then what's the problem?"  He knew the answer even before the question came out of his mouth.  "Rook got away, didn't he?"

"Got away, disappeared, vanished, escaped custody.  Pick your euphemism, Lindsey.  They're all true."

Leaning forward, he rested his head in his hands, staring at the plush carpeting on the floor.  Damn it.  This was the last thing he needed right now.  How was it possible his life could go from bad to worse so quickly?

"When do we go back?" he asked, resigned.

Lilah sat in the chair opposite his couch, flashing him her shapely calf as she crossed her legs.  "As soon as the job's done," she replied.

Lindsey frowned.  "You said Rook was gone."

"We think he's still in the city.  We can't find him or the men he's got working for him, but I've had word that Willow Rosenberg showed up at Heaven tonight.  Rook wouldn't leave her behind."  Her smile was cold.  "Which means you have a chance to redeem yourself."

Somehow, he had a feeling that she was there just to see him fail, or at the very least, do everything she could to take credit for anything he might accomplish.  But with Rook still around, there was still a chance he could come out of this without losing his life.  Because the thing about the men who hired lawyers like him?  They hated losing.

And they loved scapegoats.

*************

Spike prowled around the edges of the living room, his cigarette dangling from his fingers.  He hated being cooped up, but until he got news from Mickey, he was stuck in the tiny apartment with nothing to do but think and twiddle his thumbs.

It would've been better if he could get Buffy off his brain, but her perfume hung in the air, reminding him of her face in the warehouse, those words coming from her mouth.  She didn't have to go back.  She could've stayed with him.  Instead, she'd chosen her wanker fiancé and the life she had at Heaven, using his safety as a feeble excuse to bolt.  Not that he could really blame her.  What could a guy like him offer?  On the run, a life on the edges of the law.

And why had she bothered to save him from the police if she was just going to run away after? he wondered.  Seeing her in that alley when he'd emerged, golden and shining and offering an escape when he'd been convinced he was going to get nailed before hitting the street…all of it had only made him believe even more deeply that they were meant to be.  _She'd_ come to _him_.  _She'd_ offered her hand in help.  And then she'd taken it all away by saying she was going back to Heaven.

The hurt that wrenched at his heart now was his own fault for getting his hopes up.

Spike had never been more grateful for anything when the knock at the door sounded throughout the apartment.  Bless Mickey and whatever distraction he comes bearing, he thought as he crossed to answer the door.  Only the diner owner knew where he was, and his arrival could only mean that someone somewhere had gotten some answers.

Still…didn't hurt to be careful.

He stood poised on his side of the door, one hand resting on the knob, the other on his gun.  "Who is it?" he called out.

"Spike?  It's Buffy.  Please…let me in."

He didn't stop to consider the consequences before he ripped the door open to see her standing on the other side.  Time stopped; he didn't even see the small bag that sat next to the door, or the way her hands were twisting in knots in front of her.

Only her.

The shine in her eyes.

The silent pleading.

He'd gathered her into his arms, his lips crushing against hers, before she could speak again, kissing her with an abandon and relief as he drowned in the essence of her, everything a tangle of heat and tongues and hands and hearts as the same thoughts kept racing through Spike's head.

She came back.  God help me, she came back.  Here.  To me.

She came back.

This time, I'm not letting her go again.

To be continued in Chapter 17: Kiss Me, Killer…


	17. Kiss Me, Killer

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Wesley has convinced Willow to spend the night at his flat in order to protect her until she can hide again, while Buffy has shown up where Spike is hiding out…

*************

His fingers tangled in her hair, strong hands cupping the back of her head, as the kiss that had started out desperate and bruising softened to a gentle rain of caresses, his mouth sliding from hers to skim along the line of her jaw, across her closed eyelids, down the other side of her cheek as if he was memorizing her face with his lips.  Spike's breath was coming in feverish pants, her name a murmured litany eddying over and through her skin, and Buffy could feel the thudding of his heart through the cotton of his shirt as he held her tightly against him.  It was more than desire that made his body gallop almost beyond his control; the abeyance of his fears coaxed his internal rhythms into a celebration he was more than happy to embrace.

She was the first to break away, but only because she believed he'd allow himself to suffocate rather than stop kissing her.  "Spike," Buffy murmured against his cheek.  "My bag."

He turned his head and saw the small suitcase still sitting in the hall.  "Looks like you were takin' my welcome as a sure thing," he said, but the gleam in his eye told her he was teasing.  Picking it up, he had deposited it inside, closing the door to the rest of the world, before she could respond to his remark.  

"Not that there was ever any doubt," he went on to say.  His hand was back on her neck, his palm against her cheek, and Buffy closed her eyes against the stroke of his thumb along her skin, leaning her head into the caress with a small sigh.  "What made you come back?" Spike asked softly.

Every sweep loosened her muscles even more, soothing her into distraction.  "Angel said---."  

As soon as she said the name, Spike stiffened, his hand freezing, and she choked on the rest of her words as her lids fluttered open again.

His jaw was locked, and the flare buried deep within the sapphire sputtered in indignation.  "No, really," he said tightly in the face of her silence.  "Tell me.  What did _Angel_ say?"  

The name was a sneer and she felt a chill travel down her spine.  Way to go, Buffy, she thought angrily.  Now fix this before it gets any worse.  "He was playing Mr. Overprotective again," she said.  "He doesn't like the fact that the cop in charge of the investigation has a little crush on me, so he made me go home after my show.  Only…it felt wrong there.  Empty."  She grabbed at his hand when he started to pull away, forcing him to stay in front of her.  "It took me about thirty seconds to realize it was because you weren't there, you big jerk," she finished.

He so desperately wanted to believe her; it was etched in the blue brighter than even the relief when he'd first flung open the door.  She witnessed the fight dance across his face, and felt her own heart break in kind.  You did this, she scolded herself.  You took this powerful, independent, achingly fragile creature, and you broke him.  

She hadn't meant to.  God, how easy it would be to wish that the she'd never walked into Willy's in the first place.  How much simpler her life would be right now.  But she had.  And she'd shared with him her soul if not the deliberations of her past, and he'd gobbled it up like a starving man.  Does it really surprise you that he wants more? she wondered.  You offered him nibbles when he wants to devour it all, because this is a man who doesn't do things halfway.  It's all or nothing with him.  

"Do you have everyone in this town bewitched?" Spike asked.  A wall had come up between them, his eyes now shuttered, and his voice had grown distinctly cooler.  "Am I s'posed to feel flattered that you decided to give _me_ the buzz?  Couldn't have the cop, and the boyfriend wasn't there for you to spread them, so you figured good ol' Spike would do in a pinch.  Guess I've got a purpose in your life, after all.  Gotta service the girl.  Give her what she---."

The sharp crack of her palm across his cheek was too loud in the small room.  In spite of her earlier frustration with herself, anger now bubbled up inside Buffy at his harsh words, and she forced herself to lower her hand to her side, ignoring the sting that tingled in her fingers.  "How dare you," she said in a low voice.  "I do _not_ sleep around.  I am _not_ Faith.  You wanna know how many men I've been with in my entire life?  Three.  And I was fucking _married_ to one of them.  So don't you try turning this around on me because that's not the way this is going to work.  I didn't come here because you were some kind of also-ran, Spike.  I came here because you were the only-ran, and the sooner you get that through that thick noggin of yours, the happier we're both going to be."

As she watched, the scarlet imprint of her fingers on his face began to fade, its only competition for her riveted gaze the brightness in his eyes.  Does he even know how much he gives away, she wondered, or is that just me?  Bitter anger easing into disbelief, followed by the return of that hurt desperation with a flicker of satisfaction buried somewhere behind it all.

"Are you…staying?"  Quiet, almost flat, but she could still hear the hope underlying the pain.

"Does the suitcase not make that obvious?" she asked, matching his tone.

"I meant…not leaving again."

"Only to work.  And to…put in the proper appearances."  When she saw him start to close down again, Buffy rushed to add, "That's all they are, Spike.  Appearances.  When this is all over, if you still have that ticket, and if you still want me to, I'm ready to fly back to California with you."  Her eyes shone.  "If you still want me to," she repeated.

"Of course I still want you to, pet.  I just…I hate the idea of you with that wanker."  His head tilted as the last vestiges of his rage dissipated.  "Want you here."

Lifting her hand to press it to his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart vibrating through her fingers, Buffy smiled.  "I am.  Always."

The silence settled between them as they just stood there, neither moving, eyes locked in rumination.  "So," Spike said casually with a curious cock of his brow, finally breaking the quiet as if the fight had never happened.  "You were married?"

She mirrored his action.  "You and Drusilla Conti?" she mimicked in the same tone.

His smile was slow.  "Someone had to teach me all those tricks that made you scream."

"I've never screamed, Spike."

"Yet."

Taking her hand in his, he guided her away from the front door and toward the bedroom, hiding his grin as he relived her words in his head.  Sure, she'd slapped him, but he would've been disappointed if she hadn't.  His words had been deliberately harsh, echoing his own frustration and pain even though he didn't really believe them himself.  But she was there.  She'd come back.  And she wanted to stay, to leave with him, to be _with_ him.

The room was dark, the only illumination the streetlight streaming in through the window, and Spike was an ebony shadow before her, just the white of his hair visible to guide Buffy inside.  When he halted before the bed, she stopped him from turning around by pressing herself into him, breasts crushed against his muscled back as her arms snaked to his front.  The heat poured from his skin, burning and singeing her own as she lifted her fingers to the uppermost button, trembling slightly as they slipped the first fastening, holding her breath as she slid to the second.

Buffy's nerve endings sang as the fabric fell free.  He started to shrug out of the shirt, but her voice stopped him.  "Don't," she said, and though it was merely a whisper, the single word's clarity silenced Spike's movement.  All she could hear was the coarse rasp of his breath, driving her hands beneath the material to pull it from his frame.

"Did you know," she started, and leaned forward to skim her lips over the arch of his shoulder blade, "that no matter where I go…"  Another kiss, this one on the other shoulder.  "…no matter what I'm doing…"  Her hands settled at his waist, lightly digging into his pelvis, as her tongue found the ridge of another scar, one he hadn't yet shared with her.  "…all I ever see is you."

"Buffy…you don't…"

"Sshhh…yeah, I do."  Nimble fingers found the buckle at his navel, deftly undoing it to disclose the button and zipper underneath.  "It's never really you, of course.  Just someone who might be the same height, or have the same build.  Or they'll say something and I'll hear your voice inside my head like you were standing right behind me."  Under her guidance, his pants fell to the floor with a dull weight, allowing his erection to spring free, feeling his groan of pleasure resonate through her skin.

"You were wrong when you said I was hiding from my past," she went on.  "I'm not.  I'm living in it.  But for the first time, you're making me see that I don't have to.  You make me want to move on."

His body was an inferno as it pressed into her, and Buffy brought her other hand around to begin tracing delicate patterns along the top of his thighs.  This was for him, she thought.  In their short time together, Spike had always been the one to give during their lovemaking---and she had to be honest with herself and call it that because any other term just wouldn't be fair to either of them---making it about her pleasure even as he attained his own.  Even just holding her the previous night.  Though nothing sexual had occurred, it had still been about fulfilling _her_ needs.  After what he'd been through today, Spike deserved to have this for him.

He turned within the circle of her embrace, but when he tried undoing her own clothing, Buffy batted his hands away.  "No," she said, and pushed him gently so that he fell back against the bed.  "You just watch."

She'd done stripteases before.  Privately, for Angel.  For some reason, he liked to just sit back and watch her, for hours it felt like.  That didn't mean she liked it.  Something about baring herself so erotically made her uncomfortable in front of him, but she'd always scolded herself for just being a prude.

Now, it was different.  As she caught the glitter of Spike's eyes, watching her through heavy lids as he leaned back on his hands, Buffy felt the flush of desire wrap around her in a convulsive grip.  She wanted this as much as he did.  To show him what he did to her.

Her blouse had already become untucked from their kissing at the door, so she set trembling hands to the buttons.  

One.

The second exposed the delicate lace edge of her slip.

Three.

Four.

As the fifth cleared the hole, the hardness of her nipples became even more apparent, straining against the silk as she slipped the blouse from her shoulders.  Each breath became heavier, forcing her breasts to rise, to rub against the fabric in an excruciating chafe that begged for satisfaction.

She saw him swallow and fought to stifle her smile.  It was getting to him just as badly as it was getting to her.  But it would well be worth the wait.

The skirt was next, joining his trousers in a soft heap on the floor.

When she raised her foot and set it carefully on his muscled thigh, Buffy felt her skin begin to burn when she saw him visibly jump at the contact.  "Can you take my shoe off for me?" she asked innocently.

Though she knew he would've loved to just get it on then, Spike joined in on her play, taking her ankle in his strong hand to slide the heeled shoe off, tossing it aside.  His hand started to slide up her calf, but she pulled her leg away with a remonstrative click of her tongue.

"I didn't say anything about my stockings," she teased.  Lifting her foot, she rested it on his shoulder, grateful for those years of dance classes her mother had always insisted upon, and slid the hem of her slip up around her thighs so that her garter was exposed to the open air.

Buffy used him as a brace, feeling him tense as she leaned against him, her fingers freeing the hosiery to begin rolling it down her leg.  She had to bend her knee in order to reach further, and every inch the stocking traveled only brought her hips closer and closer to Spike's face.

Even she could smell her arousal at that point.  As she pulled the hosiery free, she saw him claw his fingers into the bedspread to fight from touching her, his now dark eyes fixated on the view she was offering him between her legs.

For some reason, that only made her wetter.

It was the same game for the other leg, and Buffy stepped back, turning her back to him before looking at him over her shoulder, dropping first one strap of her slip, then the other, and letting it fall to the floor.

The air on her nipples was a welcome relief, and Buffy exhaled in pleasure, her head tilting back as she reveled in the respite, her golden hair streaming down her bare back.

"You're killing me here, luv," Spike said.  "Please…just…need to touch you."

She turned then, a coy smile on her face.  "You will," she replied.  "We're almost there."

Truth be told, she wanted him to touch her as badly as he did.  Though her plan to move slowly was deliberate, every second felt like molasses, too long to withstand from feeling his hands assuage the heat that now boiled beneath her skin.  Carefully, Buffy closed the gap between them, and hooked her thumbs into the sides of her underpants, pushing them down just enough so that they would fall the rest of the way of their own accord.

He reached then, a single finger running the line from the hollow of her throat, downward between her breasts to her belly button, stopping to swirl around it for a moment before continuing to the beginning of the darker blonde curls between her legs.  "So beautiful," Spike murmured.

"Only because you make me so," Buffy said.  Carefully, she wrapped her arms around his neck and climbed onto his lap, holding herself rigid as she clung to him, his mere touch setting alight her skin as tinder.

His hands guided her hips just long enough to pull her firmly to him, allowing his arousal to slide effortlessly inside her.  Though the impulse to close her eyes and lose herself in the sensations was strong, Buffy forced her gaze to remain on Spike, watching as he lost his own battle to the feelings and hugged her to him, his lids shutting before he buried his face in the crook of her neck.  She nuzzled her cheek against his unruly curls, taking him in and then holding them there while they both savored the adjustment to his girth.

It was probably only a few seconds, Buffy thought afterwards, but staying like that seemed like an eternity before she tugged his head back up and lowered her mouth to his.  Gentle at first, almost chaste.  Feeling the soft pressure of his lips against hers.  Tracing that full bottom lip with the tip of her tongue before coaxing it to part from the upper.  Tasting him, drinking him down with every sweep, as his tongue joined in the dance, tripping and falling and rising again to skim in heady rhythm with the pulsing of their bodies.

Only then did she start moving.  Lifting her hips so that he slid from her heat.  Hesitating.  Holding him as her fingers tangled in his hair.  And then back down again, until the moans that filled the room were indistinguishable as to whom they belonged to.

His.  Hers.  Didn't make a difference.

It was next to impossible for her not to just throw him back and ride with abandonment, but she wanted this to last, wanted him to know and feel with everything she had to give just how much she needed him.

So she took her time, kissing and sucking and lapping at his skin like it was her last supper, gradually increasing her tempo as she felt her muscles begin to give under the strain.  When the tremors began to ripple through her stomach, Buffy tore her mouth away, finally acquiescing to the need to quicken her pace, and immediately felt Spike latch onto her breast, sucking it hard against the roof of his mouth as his teeth grazed across the sensitive skin.

She screamed, her head thrown back as she arched herself harder and closer against his sweat-slicked skin, only to be silenced when Spike knotted his fingers into her hair and forced her lips back to his.  

Buffy's breathing was ragged as she broke free from the kiss, leaning her forehead against his as the tremors undulating through her body began to ease, knowing from the familiar twitching inside her that he was close.  

"Never lettin' you go," she heard him murmur, and then felt him stiffen, his fingers bruising her skin as he clung to her sides, his own shout of release accompanying his orgasm.

She waited until his muscles began to sink into the mattress, where she could tell that it was only because her legs were wrapped around his hips that he wasn't lying back, spent.  Tenderly, she brushed her lips over his, thirsty for more, but knowing they had all night to indulge that desire.  "Not going anyplace," she whispered back.  "I finally found where I want to be."

*************

His apartment was both what she'd expected and not---tastefully decorated in creams and browns, a vast array of heavily laden bookshelves dominating the main room, the slightest of disarrays left on the dark wooden coffee table.  The surprise came from the long swords proudly on display over the fireplace, and Willow stood before them, the deli bag hanging forgotten in her hand as she cocked her head to stare at them.

"Were you a samurai in a previous life?" she joked as Wesley came up to her side.

"You don't like them?"

Her study of the weapons was serious.  "I guess they're kind of pretty, in a shiny, pointy kind of way," she mused.

He stepped forward and ran a hand lovingly over the hilt of the nearest.  "I find them extraordinary," Wes said.  "One of the reasons why I love to fence, I suppose.  It's not a matter of who has the greater brute force.  It's a question of skill.  Intelligent assessment of your partner so that every thrust, every parry, every riposte, _means_ something.  So much more interesting than the normal slap and dash, don't you think?"  The last was asked directly at her, his eyes ingenuous behind his spectacles, and Willow had to fight the blush from creeping into her cheeks as her head struggled to keep his words within the realm of his conversation topic.

"Of course," she said weakly, and then remembered the bag in her hands.  She held it up.  "Do you want to get these ready while I go change?  Eveningwear is not the most comfortable when it comes to going through files."

"Oh.  Yes.  Certainly."  Taking it from her, he gestured toward one of the three closed doors.  "The bathroom is through there, and the guest room---_your_ room---is just to the left."  His gaze was thoughtful as he watched her retrieve her suitcase from near the door.  "I would imagine fuzzy slippers are more conducive to relaxing anyway," he added with a slight smile.

Willow giggled nervously at his gibe and scurried away, keeping her eyes averted as she fought the thoughts tumbling around inside her brain.  It had been like this the entire trip to his apartment.  First, in the cab, sitting so close to him, unable to forget for a second how she'd felt in his office because for some reason, his knee remained firmly pressed against hers.

Then, as they'd talked and laughed at the deli, waiting for their order to be filled.  Those few minutes could've been lifted directly from that first lunch they'd had together, after the initial onset of nerves had passed.  Not speaking of anything remotely personal, but concentrating on trying to appear as normal as possible.  It had worked, even if only for a short time.

Of course, it didn't stop her wondering if he wanted to kiss her again.  Especially when she'd caught him paying just a little too much attention to the items he was emptying from her drawers as she gathered up her files.  Willow was certain that the slip of cotton he'd been holding when she turned around to look at him was one of her nightdresses, and they had both studiously avoided looking at each other until they'd arrived at his apartment.

And now here she was, stripped down to her underwear in his bathroom, trying to figure out what she had to wear that said both, "I'd love for you to kiss me," and "I really, really, really don't want to be uncomfortable while we research."

Normally, she'd just slip into a raggedy but still wearable pair of trousers and a loose top, not even bothering with a bra or shoes.  But if she didn't wear a bra, what kind of message would that be sending?  Maybe it would just encourage him more, which could be a good thing.  Or maybe he'd think she was easy and be turned off.  Or maybe he wouldn't even notice because he was too much of a gentleman and would never consider suggesting such a thing.  Or maybe…

Willow sighed.  She could do this all night.  She'd already been gone for ten minutes and the only things she'd accomplished were taking off her heels and getting out of her dress.  Damn.

A short knock at the door startled her into dropping her clothes, fumbling hurriedly so that they wouldn't fall into the toilet.  "Are you all right in there?" Wesley called out.  "Finding everything OK?"

"Just jake," Willow called back. "I'll be right out."

No more time for deliberation.  Grabbing the items that had slipped from her grasp, she quickly pulled them on and looked in the mirror.  Definitely going to be non-romantic kind of research sharing party, she thought sadly.  An old flannel shirt she'd snagged years ago from Xander topped her favorite baggy trousers.  I look like a lumberjack, she groused.  

Slipping her feet into her slippers, Willow opened the door to what at first looked like an empty room, only to spot Wesley kneeling on the floor, spreading out the files she'd brought in careful piles before the fireplace.  His suit coat was gone as were his shoes and tie, and he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves in anticipation of their night ahead.  The sandwiches were arranged on a platter on the coffee table.  "Whatcha doing?" she chirped as brightly as she could manage, and saw the folder he'd been holding go flying as her voice startled him from his work.

"Trying to get us…organized."  His voice faltered when he looked up to see her hovering at the corner of the leather couch.  Blue eyes slowly scanned down her front, pausing at her slippers before beginning the journey back up, a smile quirking his lips as his gaze settled on her face.  "You look…comfortable," he said.

Inwardly, she groaned.  Translate comfortable to mean awful, she thought ruefully.  "It's important not to restrict the blood flow to the brain while trying to come up with the answers to save your best friend's life," she said in a bright tone that belied her secret dismay.  "Even if it means you have to look like Paul Bunyan."  Ignoring his chuckle, she flopped down to sit on the rug in front of the fireplace, reaching for the nearest file.  "Where do you want to start?"

When he didn't answer her right away, Willow glanced up from the pages to see him gazing solemnly at her.  "Why do you do that?" he asked softly.

Her mind raced.  "Do what?"

"Downplay how lovely you are."  His hand stretched to brush back a piece of hair that had slipped from behind her ear.

She laughed, in spite of the tingles now tickling her skin.  "Oh, right.  Because that ever-so-fashionable flannel and fuzzy glad rag combination makes the cover of Vogue every single time."

"They're just clothes."  Another sweep of his eyes over her, and this time, there was no mistaking the lingering before they were back on her face again.  "Which make you look adorable, by the way.  Something about seeing a woman in a man's shirt, so…"  He stopped, cutting himself off as he frowned.  "I don't want to know _whose_ shirt that is, I think."

Her heart was pounding, and this time, there was no denying the flush in her face.  "We should really get to work," she said and looked back down at the words that now swam before her eyes.  

Long fingers caught her chin, and tilted her head back up, revealing Wesley even closer than he had been.  "I don't…really…feel like working right now," he said softly.

"Oh?"  It wasn't even a word, more like a vocalized breath.  "Did you…want a sandwich then?"  

He shook his head.  The skittering thought, _oh god he's finally going to kiss me_, was almost immediately accompanied by his lips on hers, firm and warm and _oh god he's finally kissing me_.  After only a moment of hesitation, Willow responded in kind, eyes fluttering closed as she leaned into him.

He was so much stronger than he looked.  As she lifted her hand to tentatively prop herself against his chest, she felt the hardness of his muscles beneath her fingers, lean and powerful and flexing as his arms pulled her closer, tugging her gently so that she was sitting across his lap.  There was no mistaking _that_ hardness, however, and the flood of desire that quaked in her thighs took Willow by surprise in its intensity.

When she moaned against his mouth, Wesley tightened his grip around her, coaxing her lips to part with his tongue as one of his hands found the bare skin in the small of her back.  How long had it been since someone had held her like this? Willow wondered.  Not since Oz, and even then it had been more sweet and tentative, his fear that he would hurt her holding him back in spite of her reassurances that she wouldn't break.

Wesley seemed to have no such fears.  Each sweep of his tongue was certain, taking just as much as he was giving, and his hold on her was steady, urging her to do more, to open herself up to what he was more than willing to offer.

She shocked both of them when she abruptly pulled away, catching her swollen bottom lip between her teeth as she shifted her weight to straddle his hips.  Their bodies were level then, and this time, Willow initiated the kiss, not even closing her eyes as her mouth met his, savoring the decadent arousal that was quartered within their embrace.

Too long, she thought.  We waited too long for this.  She had ached to know what this would feel like ever since that first night, and now, in hindsight, she wondered how she'd managed to stay away from it for so long.  All the remnants of the day---the fears for Spike, the confrontation with the lawyer, the pretense of wanting to compare research---vanished from her head.  All she cared about was at that moment kissing her like his life depended on it, and she was kissing him back.

And it was wonderfully liberating.

Their breathing was a harsh rasp when they finally broke from the kisses.  Gone was the blue of Wes' eyes, blackened by his desire, but Willow reached up to remove his glasses anyway, desperate to see him without the distortion of his lenses.  "Why do guys always have the prettiest eyes?" she complained with a smile.

"You're lucky I'm so secure in my masculinity," he chuckled.  "And please tell me you're not going to break out into 'Jeepers Creepers.'  I detest that song."

She laughed.  "I very much do _not_ sing, so you're safe there."  He still had one hand on her back, and she felt his fingers begin tickling the knobs of her lower spines.  "We're not going to get any research done tonight, are we?" she asked, her voice suddenly husky.

His mouth back on hers was his response, twisting to guide her onto the rug, ignoring the spreading and bending of the folders underneath her back as he pressed her into it.  Stretching his length alongside hers, Wesley released his grip to slide his fingers to her stomach, feeling the quivering of her abdominal muscles beneath his touch as their tongues dueled.

She wanted more.  He was giving so much, and each beat, each shimmer, each taste he was proffering only augmented the need she hadn't even realized had been simmering inside.  So when he hesitated, hovering at the bottom of her ribcage though it was more than obvious that he wanted more, Willow took the lead by reaching between them, tracing the outline of his erection through his trousers with her fingers.

His moan of approval made her smile, and she grew bolder, undoing his belt to allow her hand room to slide inside, her touch a feather along his arousal.

Slowly, Wesley pulled back to stare down at her.  "I want to make love to you," he murmured, eyes serious though a smile haunted his lips.  "Although I'd imagine, that's fairly obvious by now.  But I won't if---."

"I would love that," Willow whispered, and then added as if an afterthought, "Please."

His smile leapt into his eyes.  "I do adore how you make me laugh," he said as his mouth descended again.

She expected him to rise to go to the bedroom, but Wesley seemed content to remain where they were on the rug, deftly undoing the buttons on both of their sets of clothes to toss them aside, baring their skin to the cooler air of the room.  When his lips left hers to trail down her chin to the hollow of her throat, Willow pressed her cheek into the soft mat, breathing in its scent as it tickled at her nose.

"I never knew sheepskin was so soft," she said with a giggle.

"It's not sheepskin."  His teeth caught her earlobe and nipped playfully as he palmed her breast through her bra.  "It's alpaca."

"I never knew alpaca was then," she countered.  She gasped when his tongue disappeared again to land instead at her navel, sliding his body down to match.  Her eyes widened when she felt him trace her heat with his mouth, and gulped back the squeak that rose in her throat.

Wesley froze.  "Do you want me to stop?" he queried, lifting his head.

Wordlessly, Willow shook her head.

With a smile, his mouth returned to its task, and she bucked when his teeth grazed across her skin.  Thousands upon thousands of shocks traveled up her spine, and without even realizing she was doing it, she was hooking her fingers into her underpants and pulling them free from her legs.

The quivering in her thighs began almost right away, and she writhed beneath Wesley's strength when he used his arms to pin her down.  It deepened as she fought to retain some modicum of control, but when his fingers began sliding in and out of her, it became too much.

Willow's back arched away from the rug as she came, her fingers clawing into the soft fibers.  Wave after wave cascaded over her flesh until the air itself seemed to collapse around her, leaving her spent and saturated and feeling very much like she could sink into the floor itself.

"I can stop," Wesley murmured as he climbed back up her body.  His mouth was at her neck again, and she turned her head bonelessly to accommodate his searching lips.

"Don't you dare," she replied.

Though she was still floating from her own orgasm, the firmness of his initial penetration sparked Willow to wrap her arms around his shoulders, hugging him as close as he would let her, and he slowly began to pump.  He didn't play games.  All the way in with agonizing slowness.  Then almost all the way out with that same degree of care.

"Harder," she whispered against his neck.

Wes obliged, strengthening his thrusts to begin to pound into her body, driving her in the smallest of slides against the friction of the rug each and every time.

"Wanted you," he said, and thus began the stream of words, soothing and caressing and exciting her all at the same time, punctuating his movements just as they matched them.  "So lovely…take my breath away…fuck…can't get you out of my mind…you're always there…Willow…want you…so much…Willow…please…"

And then his mouth was back on hers.  No more words.  Only the quickening sensations of their bodies joining.  Melding together in a painting of colors that blurred into a frantic collage.

His release was sudden, surprising her just as she crested above her second, and Wesley tensed as he buried himself inside her, coming with a ferocity that shook his hold on the rational to leave him panting, and exhausted, and hungry for more.  

Willow clung to him, holding back the swell of emotion that rose in her throat as he lost himself in the cloud of her hair.  "I like your research parties a lot better than Giles'," she joked, running her fingers down his sweaty spine, glorying in the power he kept hidden so well.

"So much to learn from you," he agreed, and rolled to the side, pulling her against him so that she lay curled into his chest.  His fingers caught brushed aside the red strands that covered her freckled shoulder, and dropped a gentle kiss to the top of her head.  "So much."

*************

The sound of the key in the lock coaxed her from her sleep, but familiarity of the pattern wasn't enough to rouse Faith from her bed.  Instead, she rolled over onto her stomach, her back to the bedroom door, and drifted between consciousness and slumber, her thoughts a jumble of images---a gunshot, the red of a burning cigarette tip in a dark alley, a chocolaty baritone deceptively gentle.

When the mattress squeaked behind her, her response was automatic.  "Richard…" Faith murmured, and snuggled back into the warm body that now lay with her beneath the comforter.

"Time to forget that name, dollface."  His voice was muffled where he was nuzzling her neck, but it was enough to slam the brunette into wakefulness, bolting upward even as Angel's arm shot out to hook around her waist.

"Get your mitts off of me!" she hissed, twisting around to try and rake her nails down the side of his face.

He laughed, easily catching her hand in his.  "See, now, here I thought you knew the rules," he said.  He shoved her down into the mattress, pinning her by the shoulders.  "And since when did you get so picky?  I thought skirts like you were up for it any time, anywhere."

"Since I got me a little taste is when," she spat.

All mirth disappeared.  "I'd watch what you say to me," Angel warned.  "You forget.  I'm the one in charge now.  What was his, is now mine.  That includes you."

"What about B?  Don't tell me she doesn't rev your motor.  I've seen the way you look at her."

"Leave Buffy out of this."  Danger dripped from every word, his brown eyes furious as he glared at her.  "This has nothing to do with her."

When he lowered his mouth to hers, Faith's reaction was instinctive.

"Fucking bitch!" he roared, pulling away to swipe at the blood where she'd bitten him.  Without thinking, he backhanded her before she could get away.  "And here I thought a smart dame like you would know which side her bread was buttered on."  His hands squeezed into her shoulders again, but she refused to cry out in pain even though she knew that was exactly what he wanted.  "Do you like it on the streets?  Is that it?  Because I can put you back there right now if that's what you want.  All you have to do is pull another stunt like that.  The choice is yours, dollface.  Take me, or the high road and all the glory that comes with it."

Staring up at him in defiance, Faith knew that it wasn't really a choice.  She had a little money, but not nearly enough to keep her safe for any length of time.  Being on the streets these days meant needing help, and after having had a taste of freedom the last few years with Richard, there was no way she could go back to it now.  Not without some more resources on hand.

And the fucking bastard Angel knew it.

When she closed her eyes, he chuckled, easing his grip as he pushed back the hair from her face.  "That's it," he crooned, and she felt his warm breath on her cheek.  "I knew you'd see the light.  You skirts always do, sooner or later…"

To be continued in Chapter 18: What Men Will Do…


	18. What Men Will Do

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Wesley and Willow have consummated their relationship, while Buffy has tried to show Spike that she's ready to be with him once they get him safe from whoever is after him…

*************

The bed was uncomfortable, too soft with a definite squeak he hadn't noticed when Buffy had been straddling him, but Spike didn't care, not when her sinuous curves were pressed into his side, her knee draped over his legs, her head resting on his shoulder.  In the streetlight that streamed in from outside, her hair took on a silvery-orange cast, shimmering as he played absently with the strands, and his smile was wistful as he listened to her hum softly against his chest.

"What's that?" he asked softly.

Buffy abruptly stopped, burrowing her face into his skin in embarrassment.  "I'm sorry," she said quickly, her voice muffled.  "I do that when I'm in a good mood."

"No need to apologize, luv," he said.  "I liked it.  Just was wonderin' what the tune was.  Didn't mean for you to stop."  Though she didn't lift her head, he felt her smile against him, the humming almost immediately returning to resonate through his torso.  "Buffy…"  

"Hmmm?"

He was mildly worried about bringing it up, remembering how skittish every other mention of her past had made her, but his curiosity was eating him.  "Gotta ask, pet, 'cause that was kind of a bombshell you dropped earlier."

There was a hitch in her song, a mild tensing along her spine.  "Funny," she said.  "I don't remember breaking anything."

Spike's hand dropped to begin kneading away the knots in her back, wondering how just a few words could wind her up so thoroughly.  "The whole marriage bit," he said quietly.  "You don't have to be afraid to tell me anything, you know that, right?  I'm the last person to judge.  Hell, you saw firsthand what my life used to be like.  It's not like I'm in any position to be tellin' you what's right and what's wrong."

She was silent now, the humming gone.  All he could hear was the soft sound of her breathing, feeling it fan gently down his stomach.  It was remarkable, really.  _She_ was remarkable.  She carried around so much pain, from sources he could only imagine until she found the fortitude to share them with him, and yet, the majority of her time she soldiered on, bearing the load with a smile, a steady hand, and an angel's voice.  And she wanted to be with _him_.  He was the luckiest bloke on the planet.

"If I tell you…"  Her voice was low, breaking slightly on the last word.  "…will you answer a question for me when I'm done?"

"'Course."  His response was automatic.  "Not hidin' any more.  Well, not from you, at least."

"His name was Scott Hope."  Pause.  "I was only fifteen when we met.  We were friends first, then sweethearts, I guess you'd say.  He was…simple.  Uncomplicated.  Which was exactly what I needed then.  I convinced myself I loved him, and I did, in a way.  It just wasn't that toe-tapping, spine-tingling, bells-ringing kind of love that I always saw in the movies."

"Why the need for simple?" Spike couldn't help but ask.  Had her life always been so difficult?

"Things were…tense at home.  My dad took off with some chippy, and that left Mom alone to run the gallery.  She and I…well, we fought a lot.  And I mean a _lot_.  I really wanted to sing, and she wanted me to get an education.  The only thing we seemed to be able to agree on was Scott.  So when he asked me to marry him after we finished up school, I said yes.  It made things…easier."

She wasn't looking at him, but Spike could hear the pain as she spoke, the words faltering, hesitating to escape to tell the tale.  "So agreeing to marriages for the sake of everyone but you is an old habit of yours," he joked.

Buffy slapped at his stomach in admonishment, but it was half-hearted.  "I really wanted it to work with him, thank you very much," she said.  "And who knows?  Maybe it would've."  She fell silent, though he knew the story wasn't over.

"What happened?" he finally prompted.

"He was killed.  Less than a month after we got married.  Just a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, the police said.  Nobody in the hold-up survived, not even the robbers.  I just…I went into a kind of shock, I suppose.  If Angel hadn't suggested I go back to singing, I don't know what I would've done."

"Wait."  Spike stiffened, two different red flags in her words setting his calm thoughts to race.  Easing out from under her, he rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so that he could look directly at her, his brows knitting together in a dark line.  "When exactly did you _meet_ Wilkins?"

"My last year in school," she explained.  "That's when I started singing around the clubs in Sunnydale.  He was…well, I guess you'd call him a fan, then."

"What was he doin' on that side of the country, anyway?"

Buffy shrugged.  "He only ever said he had some business there.  I never bugged him about what it was."

"And you stopped singing at some point?"

"Right before Scott and I got married."  The poor lighting in the room turned her eyes into limpid pools, the melancholy in their depths almost indiscernible.  "That was…Scott was a traditionalist.  He asked me to stop, so…I did."

"That's like askin' you not to breathe, luv," Spike murmured, tracing her quivering bottom lip with a feather caress.  "It's part of who you are."

"Scott never understood that.  He argued that he didn't want to see me in such dives, that I was better than that.  So I decided I didn't want to have to live with the fighting and quit."

He didn't say it out loud, but the realization that that Scott and Angel had more in common than she realized, neither man willing to let her stand on her own feet and be the woman she needed to be, didn't escape Spike's attention.  "Only to start up again," he said instead.  "At your _fan's_ suggestion."

"Yeah.  Mom wasn't happy about it, but since I wasn't living with her anymore, she couldn't really say anything.  Well, except for the constant dropping by, and nagging, and setting Dawn on me to try and guilt me into quitting.  When Angel said I should try Los Angeles, I was more than a little ready to go."  She rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling.  "So that's it.  Exciting, huh?  Buffy and her whirlwind one-month marriage.  Aren't you glad you asked now?"  There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but she hadn't closed herself off to him, and for that, he was grateful.  He didn't need her running from him any more.

"Don't regret it, if that's what you're wonderin'," Spike said.  "Just…was Summers _his_ name, then?"

"No.  I went back to my maiden name when I started performing again.  Angel said it was because I already had name recognition.  Nobody would know who Buffy Hope was."  He saw her catch her lip between her teeth, worrying it before speaking again.  "So can I ask my question now?" she queried softly.

"Fire away."

Though she stayed flat on her back, Buffy's head turned to look at him.  "Why did you break it off with the Conti's?" she said.  "Was it because of Drusilla?"

Spike snorted.  "Not bloody likely," he retorted.  "We were over for a few months before I took it on the heel and toe.  Though, I s'pose, in a roundabout way, she could be blamed for it."  He weighed that for a moment, and then nodded with a smug smile.  "Yeah.  Let's blame Dru for everything that happened.  I like that."

It was her turn to be the interrogator.  "What happened?"

There was no escaping the memories once the question was asked.  Spike gazed at Buffy, not seeing the golden beauty stretched out beside him, but instead feeling the murky shadows of his previous life washing over him, the tangle of crimson and black and gold blinding him to anything in the present.

"Dru was my savior," he started.  "When I showed up at the Conti's, I wasn't worth a toss.  Lost in my own little book world 'cause I didn't know how to properly deal with my mum's death.  Old Man Conti decided it'd be best to just throw me into the deep end.  See if I sunk or swam.  By the end of the first week, I had a broken arm, two fractured ribs, and I'd managed to rip the hell out of my knee.  Everyone wanted a piece of me, so it was fisticuffs 'round the clock.  Until Dru decided she wanted to be my friend.  Soon as she took me under her wing, everyone scrammed out.  She made her old man teach me what it would take to survive as a member of the family."  He sighed.  "So I learned."

"It's kind of hard to think of Drusilla Conti doing anything that actually _helped_ anybody else," Buffy commented dryly.  "Not that I'm not glad she did it for you, it's just…she must've had some kind of angle, I would've expected."

Her observation was enough to jar Spike from his trance.  "What do _you_ know about Dru?" he asked curiously.

"I know she has a thing for Angel," she replied.  "Or she did, a year or two ago.  I don't know how many times I caught her making eyes at him, even after she knew he and I were seeing each other.  She'd show up at Heaven and act like she owned the joint, and Angel never really did anything about giving her the gate."

He held his tongue, remembering Harris' discovery about Angel's liaisons with Darla, and felt a sad anger at his old flame for her poor judgment.  Could've done yourself a lot better, Dru, he thought.  Angel Wilkins is one tosser who's not worth it.

"So what does Dru have to do with you blowing town?" Buffy asked, returning him from his reverie.

"We were together for most of my life, well, my life on this side of the pond anyway.  There was always talk about us gettin' married but Dru wanted to wait.  I never bothered askin' why, which is probably my own fault.  When I caught her in bed with another bloke, I about went off my box.  She said…"  He stopped, seeing her pale face rise before him, just as she'd appeared to him in so many dreams over the past five years.  "…she said, I wasn't man enough for her.  That she needed more than what I could give her.  And that was it.  We were over just as if we hadn't just spent the last fifteen years of our lives together."

It still hurt.  Five years on, and remembering seeing her long limbs draped over the man whose name he'd never even bothered to learn still burned inside Spike's stomach.  "I told her it didn't matter," he continued, but his voice was lost in the past, only a faint echo of the bravado he'd displayed earlier.  "And set out to prove it to her by gettin' involved with any skirt that would have me.  Guess I hoped I could show her that I really _was a man---."_

She didn't want to interrupt him, but resisting touching him at this point was futile.  Rolling back onto her side, Buffy reached up to caress his face, watching as his lids flickered shut, his chest heaving deeply.  As difficult as it had been to tell him about Scott, listening to him relive his own pain was just as hard, and she was regretting letting Faith's dare get the better of her curiosity.  Did it really matter what had happened? she wondered.  She was ready to forget about all the other parts of his history to be with him; this one story wasn't going to change anything.

"I started drinking a lot more, takin' riskier jobs.  Anything to not think.  And just when I thought I couldn't sink any lower, that was when I met her," Spike said.  He never opened his eyes.  Behind his lids, Buffy could see the faint movement as he saw what he was describing, almost as if he were in the middle of a dream.

"It was at a jazz club out in Harlem.  I'd just finished up a job for the old man, and I was lookin' for a bit of distraction.  There was this place I'd heard was good for the ol' rats and mice, so I figured…a bit of craps, a drink or two, some music…I'd done worse in finding ways to entertain myself.  'Cept I never made it to the game.  I walked in the joint and saw her dancin' and that was pretty much it."

A girl.  He'd given it all up for a girl.  Somehow, she wasn't surprised.

"She was spectacular.  Legs that went on forever, a don't-fuck-with-me attitude that was irresistible.  Got her to dance, and then didn't let anyone else near her the rest of the night.  By the time I walked out of there, I was obsessed."

She didn't want to hear this.  She couldn't lie here, naked, in the same bed with him, and listen to Spike go on about another woman.  Hearing about Drusilla was different for some reason; Buffy's profound dislike for the other woman made dissociating from it actually easier.  But this… 

"Stop," she said.  "I don't…I can't…hear you tell me you loved this woman."

His eyes opened then, dark and endless.  "Who said anything about love?" Spike challenged.  "The thing I had for Nikki Wood…that was pure obsession, pet.  Couldn't get her out of my head.  Showed up there the next night, and the next, and the next, and then when I walked in and found her with someone else…"  Every word grew harsher and harsher, and she saw how his hands were clawing into the sheets.  "After Dru…I just…I was sick and tired of bein' played for a sap.  So I did what I always did.  I got myself smoked, and then took off after her when she left."

Her hands caught his, pulling them away from the stiff cotton and lacing their fingers together.  His palms were sweating, and as she leaned into him, Buffy saw the shimmer of the streetlight reflecting off the deep blue, the ache in her heart for bringing all this up in the first place fighting with the slight fear about what she was about to discover.  For some reason, she thought she knew, and the dread in waiting almost made her ill.

"Tailed her 'til she got on the train," he said.  "It was late, so nobody was around.  Just her and me.  She made some joke about her dance card bein' full, laughing at me, and…I just saw red."

"Spike…you don't have to do this."  

"No.  You need to know, Buffy."  He was back now, stripped of the past as he abruptly sat up, pulling her with him.  He buried his face in her hair, hugging her tightly against his bare chest, and the pounding of his heart rivaled the beat it had carried when she had first arrived.

She knew it was coming, and as the seconds stretched, made her decision.  "You killed her, didn't you?" she asked softly.

He didn't deny it.  "I don't even know what happened," he said.  "We were arguing, and she tried to leave the car, and when I tried to stop her, she turned around and hit me.  Actually split my lip, she did.  And when I tasted the blood, I…I just…bugger…who knew this would still be so hard to talk about?"  He took in a ragged breath that seemed too loud so close to her ear.  When he spoke again, his voice was low but steady, control back in his hands.  "Broke her bloody neck when she fell.  She must've hit a seat or something.  I don't know.  Next thing I _do _know is waking up the next morning with a hangover to beat all hangovers, and that afternoon, I was on a flight to California.  End of story."

Resting her cheek against his shoulder, Buffy's emotions were all over the place.  Anger, at herself, for asking him the question in the first place when its answer didn't really matter.  Sorrow, for the angry and hurt man Spike _had_ been, for the guilt-ridden man he _now_ was.  Fear, just a little, for this dangerous man she was holding, one who was capable of such destruction.

And understanding.  Knowing exactly how he had felt.  That need to run when you'd crossed some line you never even knew existed.  When you'd destroyed the last thing you'd ever expected to destroy.

*************

Though he had a stack of files piled in his lap, Wesley's gaze was nowhere near the loose pages they contained.  Instead, he was riveted by the display in front of the fireplace, his elbow on the arm of the couch, his head leaning against his knuckles as the small smile played on his lips.  

She looked so peaceful sleeping there, all age and seasoning stripped from her face to leave her shining in youthful grace.  The hem of the flannel shirt she had slipped back on after their lovemaking skimmed the bottom swell of her ass, her legs almost as pale as the rug they rested on, only the smattering of freckles across her skin marring her perfection.  Though she had struggled to stay awake afterward, the combination of the events of the day and her sated contentment had worked against Willow to draw her into slumber, leaving Wesley to return to the work they'd planned on his own.

It was pointless to deny it to himself.  He was absolutely nuts for her.  He had to be; how else could he explain his reckless behavior getting involved when he knew what he did about Rook?

And there it was.  The rub.  Where could this between them possibly go?  He'd deliberately asked for the assignment to infiltrate the Wilkins family in an attempt to nail the Mayor when all other attempts failed.  It had been his suggestion to bury himself there, turning his back on almost all of his government contacts when it looked like that would be the only he could gain any additional trust from the patriarch.  None of it had worked, though.  He'd been held at arm's length, whether because Wilkins sensed something was off about him or for some other reason.  And now that he had the possibility of hooking another big fish, even if it wasn't the one he'd originally been angling for, Wesley was faltering.

He didn't want to hurt her.  More than anything, Willow believed in Spike.  Why, remained a mystery, but the fact was there that she did.  If Wes actively pursued putting Rook in jail, as was his job, he'd lose her.  He knew that.  He hadn't been more sure of anything else in his entire life.

But he wanted to help.  Hell, he had access to resources that would aid in their search for whoever set Spike up.  It would mean involving Jenny, but his old friend was loyal.  She would do whatever he asked.  Would that force him to tell Willow, though?  And if she found out the truth about him, did she care enough about him, about their potential, to overlook it?

No answers would be forthcoming tonight.  Setting aside the files, Wesley rose from the couch and stepped the few feet to the rug, easing himself down to stretch out along the redhead's side.

As soon as his bare leg touched hers, Willow's eyes fluttered open to see him gazing down at her.  "I think I fell asleep," she murmured with a small smile.  "Why did you let me fall asleep?"

"It's been a long day," he replied.  "You need your rest."

Sighing, she nestled into the crook of his arm, letting her lids drift back closed.  "No rest for the wicked," she said, her voice barely a whisper.  "Guess that means I'm one of the good guys."

His hand came up to stroke her hair, feeling her breathing even out as she slipped back into slumber.  "Of course you are," Wesley said softly.  "Of course you are."

*************

He was exhausted.  Dropping the file into his top drawer, Riley stood up from his chair, stretching overhead as his back audibly cracked.  "You finally heading out?" he heard from the desk behind him.

He glanced back to see Blaisdale looking up at him over his magazine.  "Yeah," Riley said.  "It's all starting to blur together.  I figure that's a sign that maybe I should get some sleep."  He raised a hand in salute as he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.  "See you later, Larry," he said as walked out of the room.

The precinct was quiet, the wee hours of the morning cloaking the building in a mask of calm.  He liked this time of night.  It reminded him of home.  It was about the _only_ thing that did so these days.  Though he liked getting the high-profile cases---and the murder of Richard Wilkins definitely qualified as one of those---sometimes he missed the ease of the more mundane policework.  

He'd actually walked by her office before he realized that her light was still on.  Backing up, Riley frowned as he knocked at the glass on her door.  "It's a little late for you, isn't it?" he asked the blonde sitting behind the desk.

Kate Lockley looked up from the file she'd been reading and gave him a little smile.  "It's not like I have anything to go home to," she replied.  "And besides, I'm waiting on someone to come in to talk."

He glanced at his watch with a frown.  "At this hour?"

"She's a night owl.  What can I say?"

"I gave someone your name this afternoon," he said.  "A dame by the name of Faith.  She's the one hooked up with the Wilkins murder.  Has she called you yet?"

Kate shook her head.  "Do you think it's important I see her?"

"This girl's got a chip on her shoulder the size of Montana.  And I couldn't get her to calm down when I tried questioning her.  I'd lay odds she got hit a lot harder with this than she lets on."

"You want me to follow up with her then?"

He seemed to consider this for a moment, and then nodded.  "Her info's in the file.  Just…let me know what you think.  She's a real number, that one."  

When he got her affirmation, he tossed her a little wave and continued down the hall, his thoughts now on the brunette who'd thwarted most of his attempts at interrogation.  For some reason, he got the suspicion she knew more than she was letting on, but whatever it was, she wasn't telling.  The only thing he knew for certain was that she hated Rook.  He hadn't seen anyone that adamant about catching a suspect in quite a while.

He breathed deeply as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.  It was good to be going home.  It would be better to get back into the precinct tomorrow and start fresh on catching William the Bloody.

*************

"You're late."

Trick smiled, his teeth shining white in the dark alley.  "You're early."

"You got my money?"

A soft thud as something hit the earth.  Trick watched the dark-haired cop hurriedly bend over to retrieve the leather satchel.  "Don't be embarrassing both of us by counting it in front of me," he said casually.  "It's all there.  You held up your end of the bargain, so we hold up ours.  A deal's a deal."

Warren held the bag tight under his arm, as if he was afraid his visitor would suddenly change his mind and take it back.  "As long as you don't show your mug in this neighborhood," he said, "you should be safe.  They bought my story about not paying any attention to you leaving."

"Good, good.  My boss will be glad to hear that.  Any word yet on Rook?"

Warren shook his head.  "Clean sneak.  He had to have help, but Finn hasn't been able to figure out how yet."  He leaned toward him conspiratorially.  "I don't suppose you know who could've done it, do you?" he asked.

"Because getting knocked unconscious is just so much fun for me," Trick drawled, and then rolled his eyes.  "I wouldn't have called you to arrest him if my boss wanted him to get away.  _You're_ the ones who didn't do your job there."  He turned and headed back out the alley.  "I'll be in touch if we need anything else done," he said as he disappeared into the night.

For a moment, Warren just stood there, listening as the car that had been waiting in the street revved its engine before heading down the road.  He didn't care about all his own police training; when it came to dealing with Trick, he felt like a rank amateur.  The only thing that made him feel better about any of it was that Trick's boss didn't fall under his jurisdiction.  Things might've gotten a little stickier for him then, even if it might've been more lucrative.

Clutching his bag to his side, Meers rushed out of the alley.

To be continued in Chapter 19: Guns, Girls, and Gangsters…


	19. Guns, Girls, and Gangsters

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy and Spike have spent a night of lovemaking and sharing, Wesley and Willow have consummated their relationship, while everyone else is still trying to figure out who set Spike up…

*************

The morning sun poured through the window in a blinding swell that burned white around the edges, lighting the fading carpet of the hotel room so that every flaw became visible to anyone paying attention.  Perched on the bed closest to the door, Xander set down the bronze brush, lifting his gun to his eyes so that he could more closely peer at the empty chambers.  "That was probably the quietest I've ever heard you when you're barbering with Willow," he commented as opposite him at the room's desk, Giles replaced the phone on its cradle.  "She find something so exciting she wouldn't let you get a word in edgewise?"

"No."  The Englishman's voice was low, his brow wrinkled.  "In fact, we have more new information than she does."

Xander laughed.  "That's a switcheroo.  Usually, we're the ones trying to catch up with her.  She must've had a really bad night."

For a moment, the only sound in the tiny hotel room was the metallic swish of the gun brush.  "Willow spent the night at Wesley's, as a matter of fact," Giles finally said.  "Apparently, he was reluctant to let her out of his sight in light of what happened with the lawyer at the club."

"Knew there was a reason I liked him."

"You don't think it was…perhaps, a trifle rash on her part?"  He hated sounding like he did, but hearing the excitement in his protégé's voice, the background noises of breakfast being made, had struck the domesticity of the arrangement like an arrow through his heart.  Foolish and totally uncalled for, he knew, and the distaste his response left in his mouth made him fervently wish he'd brought his favorite whiskey.  Grown woman who has never seen you as anything more than a mentor, Giles scolded himself.  Time to stop acting like the put-upon father and behave like an adult.  "After all," he went on to say, in spite of his rational chastisement, "we know very little about him, other than the superficial details Willow has gleaned."

"I know he saved Willow's life yesterday, so that's enough for me," Xander announced.  "Besides, she told us Buffy said he's a right gee, too."

"And yet another person we know next to nothing about," Giles muttered.

"She's a good dame, well, except for the being engaged to Angel part.  And Spike trusts her.  That's got to be enough for us, don't you think?"  Holstering his now-clean gun, Xander rose from the bed.  "So, all that aside, what's the plan?  What did you and Willow come up with?"

Giles cleared his throat, straightening his glasses.  "Right.  Well, we need to meet up with Spike, so we can determine as a group how to proceed.  We have the location information on the attorney, and though Willow didn't reach any new conclusions, it's possible Spike might have a new angle on this.  Now, according to Willow, that Mickey who helped him with the getaway from Faith's is the only one who knows where he's at, so he'll get him to the pre-arranged location."

"Which would be…?"

"The diner Mickey owns.  We're to go in through the back.  She gave me the address…"  Fumbling with the papers on the desk, Giles tore a page from his notepad and handed it over to Xander.  "Why don't you go get us a cab?  I just want to organize these notes quickly before we go."

He waited until he was alone before reaching for the phone.  Straightening the files that sat before him, Giles worked through the crackle of the line, the long distance making it seem tinny.  This was for the good of the group, he reasoned.  This is _not _me being selfish.

When the sleepy voice came through, he berated himself for a moment about forgetting the time difference before saying, "It's Ripper.  I need you to do something for me.  A background check on a Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."

*************

"She's where?"  Lilah's voice rose, her knuckles tight around the phone, and she watched the door to the bathroom with a steady eye as she listened to the man on the other end of the line.  "I'd say it looks like our little coat check girl checks more than coats."  The sound of the toilet flushing, and she quickly ducked her head, lowering her voice at the same time.  "Stay there," she instructed.  "I'm going to call you back in five minutes."

"Who was that?" Lindsey asked as he emerged from the bathroom.

"Holland.  Checking in on our progress."  Her gaze was cool as she casually strolled away from the phone to sit on the edge of the couch.  Lying to her co-worker was pathetically simple; how on earth he had ever risen as far as he had was beyond her.  "He had an interesting suggestion.  I think we should take him up on it."

"Oh?  What's that?"

She waited for him to sit down, but when it became apparent he wasn't going to, choosing instead to lean against the table opposite her, she said, "Holland believes Faith knows more than she's telling the cops.  He recommended you go talk to her."

"And find out…what exactly?  The police report says she wasn't even in the room when Rook did the job."

Lilah shrugged, frowning as she noticed a jagged nail on her left hand.  "Don't ask me.  It was Holland's idea."

"Well, it's a bad one."

"Are _you_ going to be the one to tell him that?"  Her challenge went unchecked, and Lilah had to fight to keep the triumphant smile from her lips.  Lindsey was a sap.  Though she knew he wasn't thrilled with his current workload, she also knew there was no way he would stand up to Manners about anything, not unless he was assured he was right or could win.  And on this point, he could only lose.  Well, he would lose if it was actually true.

Tiredly, Lindsey ran his fingers through his hair.  "Did he happen to have any ideas on what I'm supposed to say to her?" he asked.  "The dame's a pro.  She'll know in five seconds I'm not a cop."

"You're a lawyer.  Do what you do best.  Lie."

He just stared at her in frustration, eyes stormy as his lips pressed into a severe line.  She never flinched, merely matching his gaze with an icy reverence, until he snorted in irritation, and grabbed his jacket, marching for the front door of the suite's room.

She was back at the phone as soon as she was alone, slender fingers dancing around the dial.  "It's Lilah," she said when it was picked up on the first ring.  "I want you to send one of your teams after Miss Rosenberg.  She should lead you to Rook."  Pause.  "As long as he's alive, casualties are not an issue."

*************

He couldn't bear to stop touching her.  Even sitting at the rickety table in the cramped storeroom of Mickey's diner, Spike maintained the contact---his knee ghosting along hers, his fingers tracing the sinew along the back of her hand.  He would've much preferred to languish with her in bed all day, taking turns between whispering their secrets and breathing life into each other's flesh, but the call from Mickey had meant setting aside the ghosts of the past in order to continue the search for the present-day spooks out to ruin Spike's life.

Not for the first time, Buffy looked at her watch and frowned.  "Not that I'm always Little Miss Punctuality," she said, "but what's taking everyone so long?  This is your life that's getting played with here.  Don't they---."  She broke off when the door opened, and Giles and Xander entered the small room.

"So sorry we're late," the Englishman said, shifting the files under his arm to squeeze past a shelf of canned goods.  "I'm afraid that's my fault."

"You beat Red, so technically, she can be the one who's late," Spike commented.  He nodded at the blonde at his side.  "You remember Buffy."

For a moment, Giles hesitated, an echo of a frown flitting behind his eyes before a courteous smile spread across his face.  "I believe we owe you a debt of gratitude, Miss Summers," he said, stretching out his hand in greeting.  "Willow explained how it was your fortuitous arrival that kept Spike from getting rounded up by the police."

"It's Buffy," she replied with her own warm smile.  "And no thanks are needed.  I was just doing what needed to be done."  She shook her head.  "I've gotta tell you, I would never have fingered you for a redhot when I met you the other night at Heaven---."

"We're not criminals, Miss---Buffy," Giles said.  

"But you work with Spike."

"Yes---."

"And just yesterday, he killed Mr. Wilkins."

"Well, yes, but---."

"And last time I checked, murder was still a crime."

"It's not---."     

"And you guys helped him organize everything.  That's what you do, right?"

He kept his mouth shut this time, prompting Spike to chuckle.

"Told you she was a cracker," he said.

"Still…"  He was flustered, taking off his glasses to begin cleaning them with the handkerchief he extracted from his pocket.  "Yesterday's job was not our usual province.  Most of our responsibilities fall far short of actually breaking the law.  Yesterday…was an exception."

"He's right, pet.  Usually, we just bend it around a bit to suit our needs."  He grinned at Giles' effrontery.  "Aw, c'mon, Ripper, relax.  We go into this without a bit of a humor about it, it's goin' to eat us alive."

Leaning across the table, Xander said to Buffy, "Can we bottle you?"

Her eyebrows shot up.  "Pardon me?"

He grinned.  "If you're what's turning Spike here into the Good Ship Lollipop, you're the best drug I've ever seen.  I'm beginning to think I never really knew the man.  Not like this."

She blushed under the obvious compliment.  "Are we going to wait for Wesley and Willow before we start?" she said, changing the subject.  "The sooner we can get whoever it is after Spike taken care of, the happier I'm going to be."

"Yeah, Rip, show me what you got.  We can always fill Red in on the details of it later.  It's her own fault for---."  A knock on the door quieted Spike.  Four heads swivelled to see it open and Wesley step inside.

"Ah, you're all here," Wes said, but remained in his position in the doorway.  "Good."

"Where's Red?" Spike asked, his gaze darting past the arrival to see the empty entrance behind him.

"Not here.  I'm afraid there's been a bit of a hiccup."

All three men rose to their feet, but it was a glowering Spike who spoke.  "If something's happened to her…" he menaced.

Behind his glasses, Wesley's eyes widened.  "Oh, no, nothing like that," he rushed.  "Willow is perfectly safe at the moment.  What I meant was, it appears that someone has followed us from my flat."

"How do you…wait.  _Your_ flat?  What was Red doin' at _your_ place?"  The blond turned to glare at his friends.  "Thought I told you lot to get yourself stashed in new scatters.  What the hell are you doin' lettin' Red put herself up where people can find her?"

"That was my fault," Wes said, and lifted his chin as Spike's gaze swung back around to stare at him.  "She was going to spend the night in her old room and search for someplace new this morning.  I wasn't willing to risk anything happening to her merely because she insisted on being stubborn."

The muscles in his jaw twitched, his eyes steel as they locked with the bright blue of the other man's.  "So you kept her safe for the night only to lead whoever's out there to our rendezvous."   Gone was his good humor.  He had trusted Wesley at Willow's insistence, the fact that he'd saved her life enough to garner a small measure of respect for the time being.  But this was too much.  Not with everyone's lives at stake.

"When we left, it became obvious very quickly that we were being followed," Wesley explained.  "I tried losing them, but, well, that didn't work.  So, I rather thought we'd take the bull by the horns, so to speak.  I had Willow drop me a few blocks away and told her to drive around in the cab for half an hour before heading to Heaven.  It was the only place I could think of on such short notice that would be unoccupied this time of day, and that we could reach relatively quickly."

"You want to ambush them," Giles said speculatively.

"With Red as the bait?"  Spike snorted.  "What kind of protection is that?"

"The kind of protection that ensures Mickey remains anonymous, you don't lose your hiding place, and puts Willow in a place that's secure," Wesley countered.  His nostrils flared.  "We don't have time to argue about this.  It was the best I could do on such short notice.  Now.  There were four men in the car.  There are four of us.  If we leave now---."

"Five."  Buffy rose from her seat.  "You're not going anywhere without me."

"Whoa, Nellie," Xander said, raising his hands as if to ward her away.  "No offense, but we don't have time to be worrying about protecting a dame at a time like this.  Well, we'll be protecting Willow, but we don't need to add another one into the mix."

"Yes," Giles said.  "Everyone will be much safer if you stay here until we're through."

"Actually, you're wrong on both counts," Spike drawled, cocking his head as he regarded Buffy.  "Not only can she hold her own, but she'll be an asset if there's a fight."  The glance he shot Xander twinkled in amusement.  "She's a better shot than you are, Harris.  _She'll_ probably be the one to protect _your_ sorry ass.  I say she goes."

When she shot him a brilliant smile, he grinned back at her, reaching to entwine her fingers with his as he turned back to the doorway.  "Right then," Spike said.  "'S'pose we should be moseying along to Heaven now, shouldn't we?"

*************

If it wasn't for the fact that it was Holland's idea, there was no way in hell Lindsey would've ever considered approaching Faith for help in catching Rook.  What on earth is this going to accomplish? he wondered as he neared her apartment.  Total waste of time.

Shifting his briefcase to his left hand, Lindsey knocked at the door, squaring his shoulders as he debated his options on what he was going to say.  Lie, Lilah had said.  Right.  Not as easy as it sounded.  And if she was gung-ho for this idea, why in hell wasn't she here doing it herself?

Oh, yeah.  Because Holland said for you to do it.

The scrabble of a lock being undone on the other side made his skin crawl, and he steeled himself with a smile as the door opened to reveal Faith.  Though she was immaculately dressed in trousers and a clingy black sweater, her make-up flawlessly applied, dark circles shadowed her eyes and he could see the beginnings of a series of bruises disappearing beneath the scarf she wore tied around her neck.

"Good morning," he said.

The corner of her mouth lifted as doe eyes jumped from his briefcase to his face.  "Kind of the wrong neighbourhood to be peddling your wares, shoe boy," she said, and began closing the door.

Lindsey's hand shot out and grabbed its edge to prevent it shutting.  "I'm not a salesman, Faith," he said.

She froze at the use of her given name.  "Who are you and what do you want?"  
"My name's Lindsey McDonald.  I'm an attorney representing a party who has a vested interest in seeing William Rook jailed for his crimes.  I was hoping I could talk to you about what happened yesterday."  Best to go with the truth, he decided.  Well, at least as much of the truth as he could reveal.  No reason for her to know that his firm was the one who'd contracted Rook to perform the hit in the first place.

"So the coppers decide to go the shyster route to get to me.  Nice."  Her voice dripped in sarcasm, but as his grip on the door stopped her from closing it in his face, Faith opted instead to stretch herself out along its edge, her right arm snaking up as she pressed her side against the wood.  The fact that this meant her breast was now caressing the back of his hand didn't go unnoticed by either of them, but Lindsey remained indifferent at the contact.

"I'm not in any way associated with the police," he said.  "Like I said, my client is an independent party who merely wishes to see justice prevail."  He smiled.  "I'm one of the good guys, Faith."

"Then you came knocking at the wrong door, buddy."  Her eyes were cold.  "Because I'm not."

He was about to retort when he saw her gaze slide past him, and turned to see the tall blonde striding toward them.  A cop, he immediately identified, though she wasn't dressed in uniform.  Instead, she wore a dark suit, with shapely calves peering from beneath the hem he decided was far too long.  Intelligent green eyes, a little too wide and trying to be ingenuous when he suspected there was more to her than she wished to reveal, met his briefly before leaping to the doorway.

"Well, if it isn't Grand Central Station this morning," Faith said.  "Now who the hell are you?"

"Kate Lockley."  Her hand came out in greeting, staying there for a full thirty seconds before she realized it wasn't going to get shaken.  "I believe Officer Finn mentioned me yesterday.  He told me he passed my details along to you."

"More like shoved them at me," she said.  "What?  I didn't--."

Removing his hand from the door, Lindsey held it up to cut her off.  "Let me handle this, Faith," he instructed her.

"And who are you?" Kate asked.

"Lindsey McDonald.  Faith's lawyer."  Offering his hand, he shook hers firmly, noting the satiny touch of her fingers as she pulled away.

Kate's eyes narrowed.  "Why does she need a lawyer?  She hasn't done anything wrong."  For some reason, though, her voice lacked conviction, as if she believed the exact opposite.

"No, she hasn't," he agreed.  "But she does deserve to have her rights protected.  And after Officer Finn's treatment yesterday, I merely want to ensure that she is accorded the proper respect she deserves for being the primary witness in such a high-profile murder investigation."

"Officer Finn didn't do anything wrong."

Behind him, Faith snorted in disgust, but Lindsey ignored it.  "Then why your presence here today, Miss Lockley?"

"I'm a victim liaison with the police," she explained.  "I provide counselling for witnesses who exhibit symptoms of being traumatized by the events."

This time he looked back.  "Do you feel traumatized, Faith?"

"Only by punch-drunk cops who only live to tighten the screws," she replied.

The air was thick with tension as the trio stood in silence, waiting for the first to back down.  It had been a gamble, Lindsey knew, but given what he had, gambles were all he had right now.  

"You have my number," Kate finally said.  "Please.  Call me if you ever feel the need to talk about what happened.  I really do only want the best for you."

They watched as she turned and walked away, maintaining their silence until she had disappeared in the elevator.

"So," Faith said, releasing her hold on the door and pushing it wider so that there was room for him to pass beside her.  There was no mistaking her invitation to come inside.  "What's your pleasure, lawyer boy?  Whiskey straight up or something else?"

*************

OK, not so much on the side of liking this plan anymore, Willow thought as she glanced furtively around.  They were still behind her somewhere; she'd made sure her cab didn't lose them in the morning traffic, and had watched them pass by when she'd pulled over in front of Heaven.  Probably going to circle the block one more time before coming in to try and bump me off, she reasoned.  And please let try be the operative word in that sentence.

Not that she didn't trust Wesley, but as she pushed open the back entrance of the club, sliding the extra key he'd given her into her pocket, the fact that the only noises she could hear came from the street out front and not from within was seriously making her reconsider her options.  Stop now, and try and make a run for it on her own, knowing that the quartet of doom was somewhere behind her just waiting for her to settle someplace so that they could swoop in.  Or, bite the bullet and go in, trust in Wesley to be there, and find someplace really good to hide.

Hiding sounded very appealing.

Didn't I just do this yesterday? Willow wondered as she stepped into the darkness, hearing the door swing shut behind her.  Except yesterday, I didn't know that the shyster was on my tail.  And yesterday, Wesley and I were just a pipedream, or, OK, maybe a wet dream, but still, not a reality yet.  And yesterday---.  
The hand clamped around her mouth stifled her scream when she felt the male body pressed against her back, and Willow clawed at the powerful forearm latched around her waist as it pulled her into the shadows.

"Bugger!" she heard as a hiss and instantly froze.

"Spike?" she tried to say, but his tight fingers over her mouth made it sound like a squeak instead of anything intelligible.

"Not a word, Red," he growled in her ear.  "They still tailing you?"  At her nod, his arm relaxed to release her from his hold.

Scampering behind him to press herself against the brick wall, Willow watched as he pulled out his gun, and motioned with it to somewhere further along the wall.  A faint scuffle, and she caught the gleam of metal as a stray light was captured, the unmistakable cocking of another weapon audible in the close air.

Relief was a warm rush through her body.  She wasn't alone.  Wes had done it.  Spike was here, and Spike would save the day just as he always did when his people were threatened.  

Before she had any more time to contemplate just where everyone was, sunlight came streaming in through the back entrance as it was pushed open again, the outlines of first one man, and then a second blurred before her eyes.  She held her breath, nails digging into the brick behind her in a prickling pain she wasn't even cognizant of.    Two? she thought wildly. There had been four in the cab following her.  Where were the others?

She saw them too late, their shots ringing out from the stage end of the room, and sank to the ground, her arms over her head as she curled into a fetal position for safety.  The noise was deafening, coming from every direction, and she couldn't help but wonder how any of them could see well enough to actually hit something.  Someone did, though.  More than one scream pierced the air, though in the din, it was impossible to tell who they belonged to.

"Stop the prat!" she heard Spike shout during a lull in the gunfire.

"I've got him!" she heard from Xander.

The sound of running feet.

A metallic crash.

One last shot.

Then…

Silence.

Counting to ten, Willow tried to quash her racing nerves, her breathing still ragged when she finally lifted her head.  Someone had turned on the overheads, and she had to blink more than once for her eyes to adjust.  Everyone seemed fuzzy, too bright around the edges.  

The motion down the wall had been Giles, now emerging from behind a stack of chairs, his waistcoat atypically undone and exposing the holster beneath his arm.

A clatter overhead, and she saw Buffy on the balcony outside her dressing room, her gun still in her hand.  Willow's eyes widened.  Buffy?  What was she doing here?  And with a gun?

"Where's the other one?"  Spike's voice was a bark from the middle of the room, and she staggered to her feet to see him standing there with Wesley, looking at the three suited bodies lying on the floor around them.

"More to the point," Giles said as he approached them, "where's Xander?"

Everyone looked around, as if by doing so the brunette would magically be revealed.  "I'm here," they heard from the stage door, and it opened to show the young man stumble in, holding his left arm close to his body, a bright crimson stain spreading down his sleeve.

Spike was the first one at his side, ripping the shirt to expose the blood flowing down Xander's arms.  "It's just a scratch," Xander said as he tried to bat away the prying hands of his friend.  "It looks a lot worse than it is."

"There's a first aid kit in my office," Wesley said.  "I'll go get it."

"Hold that there," Spike instructed as he pressed the torn fabric of the garment to the wound.  He stood back and looked past him.  "Where'd he go?"

Xander shook his head.  "He got away.  I'm sorry."

"Bloody hell!"  Furiously, he began prowling around the edges of the room, at one point kicking at the lifeless body of the nearest intruder in frustration.  "So much for leaving one alive to put the screws on."

"I'm beginning to think that perhaps we don't need to," Giles said.  Once Xander's wellbeing had been determined, he'd crossed the room to crouch over one of the bodies.  "These are nothing like the men who followed either Xander or myself."

Spike stopped in his tracks.  "What makes you say that?"

Giles pointed at all three of them, indicating their pasty complexions.  "For one thing, they're all white," he said.  "Both men who were tailing us were not."

"And the suits," Xander said.  "Our other guys looked like Joe Average off the street.  These are high-class trigger men."

"You know who they look like, don't you?"  Her heart had finally returned to a normal beat, and Willow stepped forward to join her friends.  "Like that lawyer who came after me yesterday."

"So what you're saying…" Buffy started as she strode forward from the bottom of the stairs to meet them.

"Wolfram and Hart," Giles finished.

*************

She had to bite her tongue to keep herself from screaming.  With a trembling hand, Lilah replaced the phone back on its cradle, taking a deep breath.  Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.

"That didn't sound good."  There was a clink of ice hitting a glass, and she could just imagine Trick standing before the suite's bar, debating which alcohol to pour into his tumbler.  "Not good at all," he said again.

"It was worth a try," she said, and the steadiness of her voice belied the tympani of her nerves.  So much for trying to one-up Lindsey by catching Rook herself.  Too bad she had to lose three men in her attempt.

"You should've called me," Trick said.  "My guys wouldn't have gotten themselves ambushed, and we just might have Rook in custody at this very minute."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," she said, finally turning around to look at him.  The best whiskey.  Should've known.  "But wasn't it _your_ guys who lost all_ three_ of them yesterday?  In fact, I could've sworn that _you_ were the one who got knocked out by Rook himself."

"Details."  He took a deep swallow of his drink, cold eyes assessing hers.  "My boss doesn't like fuck-ups, you know.  Especially when they come from the people he's paying very good money for.  How do you think he'd react if he found out his legal team wasn't actually a team?  I don't think he'd be happy to know his mouthpieces are working against each other."

"We're not.  We're merely pursuing different lines of attack.  We have only his best interests at heart."

He set down his glass and began walking to the door.  "You just go on thinking that," he said.  "But you can be sure that if something isn't done soon, my boss and his partner will be taking their business elsewhere."  He didn't even look behind him when he sauntered out of the room.

Exhausted, Lilah collapsed onto the couch, closing her eyes as she leaned back into the cushion.  It could've gone worse, she thought.  I could've lost all of them.

And I wouldn't know now that Buffy Summers is in this now just as deep as that club manager…

To be continued in Chapter 20:  What Price Safety…


	20. What Price Safety

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Lilah's plan to catch Spike behind Lindsey's back backfired but not without her finding out that Buffy is somehow involved, while Lindsey has gone to see Faith in an attempt to get more information about finding Spike…

*************

As their adrenaline from the successful ambush waned, a cheerless silence settled over the group, nobody seemingly willing to speak up and address the issue of what should come next.  Wesley's gaze kept jumping around, from Willow's pinched face, to the blood beginning to seep from the gun-riddled bodies on the floor, to the deadly determination glinting in Spike's eyes.  What was on his mind was the same thing that was plaguing everyone else.

Wolfram and Hart.  

The same attorneys who had tried to hurt Willow, trying to hurt her again, it would seem.  

Never before had he felt such a rage for someone supposedly on the good side, churning with fervor within his gut, and Wesley had to struggle not to empty the rest of his bullets into the lifeless intruders around the room, as if making them even more dead would pacify his surprising fury.

"We need to get out of here," Giles finally said, and his voice seemed hollow in the expanse of the back room of the club.

"What about the…them?" Willow asked, gesturing abstractly at the corpses around them.  As she turned to look at the one behind her, her heel stepped into a pool of blood, skidding her foot out from underneath her.

Wesley's hand shot out and grabbed her elbow, steadying her as he pulled her against his side.  "Go on without me," he said.  "I'll take care of the clean-up."

"Are you…equipped for such an undertaking?" Giles asked, frowning.

"Yeah, what about the coppers?" Xander interjected.

"Trust me.  They won't be a problem.  I work for Richard Wilkins, remember?"  Wesley grimaced, shaking his head.  "Well, I _did_.  But my point is---."

"They get it," Willow said softly, her hand a warm weight on his arm.

Looking down into the emerald of her gaze, a measure of the strain clenched within Wesley's muscles eased.  Everything always seemed easier when she was around, he realized, whether it was or not.  "When I'm done here," he said, "I'm going back to my flat to pack your things.  Then I'll drop them by the diner.  You need to find someplace safe to stay, someplace other than…around me, and I…I don't think you should come back to work here tonight."  He hated to have to say it, but her safety was paramount to him.  Spike would make sure she was protected; Wes would just have to settle for clandestine meetings until this mess was resolved.

Willow's eyes widened.  "What about you?" she demanded.

"I'm not the one they're after."

"And what makes you so sure about that, Mr. Smartypants?  _You're_ the one who flattened Lindsey McDonald, and _you're_ the one he saw bop his partner yesterday.  You could just as easily be on their list now, too."

"I don't think---."

"Red's right."  Spike's interruption was cool and even, but when Wes looked over at him, the blond had already turned away to address the others.  "Get out to the car," he instructed.  "Keep your heads low just in case someone's still out there.  If it looks like we've got more tails, get back in here and let me know.  Otherwise, wait for me."  He jerked his head at Willow, who was glued to Wesley's side.  "That goes for you, too, Red."

It was obvious she didn't like the order, but years of listening to Spike won out as the redhead slowly peeled herself away, eyes skipping between the two Englishmen.  Letting Buffy take her by the arm, she began walking away, glancing over her shoulder until she reached the door.  At that point, she gave them a half-hearted waggle of her fingers and disappeared.

Wesley watched as the blond squared off with him, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.  "I got some things to say, and then I got some things I want to ask, so just bear me out here," Spike said.  He met the taller man's gaze with his own temperate one.  "I only risked my neck comin' back to New York to do this job because of what those shysters threatened to do to Red and Ripper.  They're my family, and I've never been a big one for expanding that circle too wide.  Now, I trust them with my life, but just because Red said I had to include you in that list, didn't mean I had to like it.  I did it for her and only her."

"I know," Wesley replied.  "I respect that."

Spike nodded.  "I'm not blind," he continued.  "I can see what's goin' on between you two, and I'm glad for Red, really I am.  She's spent enough time on her own and she deserves to be treated decent for a change.  I was ready to just let everything slide because of that, but now…I'm not."

A trickle of fear crept down Wesley's spine.  It hadn't occurred to him that Spike might use this opportunity to clear the ranks, so to speak.  "Oh?" he said out loud, maintaining the professional calm he'd mastered over the years.  Don't show your true feelings, he could hear his mentor intoning as if he was standing right behind him.  Don't betray your hand.

"No.  I want you to know…what you did today…it wouldn't matter if Red was stuck on you or not.  And it doesn't matter that Buffy keeps yammering in my ear about how you can be trusted.  You're a good man.  I'm…honored you chose to help."

He couldn't help the dropping of his jaw as his surprise overtook him.  It was apparent that "honored" was not a word William Rook used very often, unless it was in conjunction with Willow or one of the others.  Would he be so willing to bandy about such terms if he knew the truth about who I am? Wes wondered.  And then again, does my real employment actually matter in this case?  If I were serious about it, I would've told Jenny when I called that I could hand Rook over on a silver platter.  Yet, at that exact moment in time, Wesley knew he would never do that.

Spike might be a killer, with a history as dark as any blackheart gracing the department's books, but one would have to be blind not to see how he had fought to escape from that.  Killing Wilkins had been a desperate move for him, only done to protect those he loved, and Wes couldn't say that he wouldn't have done the exact same thing if he were in his shoes.

"Thank you," he said simply.  "I'm sorry, though, that our…meeting has been under such unfortunate circumstances."

His lips quirked at that.  "Unfortunate doesn't even begin to cover it," Spike said.  "But that leads me to my next.  I want to know…what's your plan?"

"Plan…?"

"The way I see it, Red's hit it right on the nose.  Those shysters can finger you in a second for takin' out her attacker yesterday, and now with this clean-up today…"  He stopped to survey the bodies still littered around them.  "Every time you help us, you dig yourself in even deeper.  What I want to know is…what are you plannin' on doin' about it?"

Wesley shook his head.  "I'm…not sure I understand.  I thought I'd made myself clear."

"Are you stayin' on here?"

"At Heaven?"  At Spike's nod, he said, "Well, I'd fully intended to.  Angel has made it clear my services are still considered valuable."

There was no mistaking the derision in his snort at the mention of Angel's name.  "What if I was to offer you a job with me?" Spike said.  "When we get this sorted, you come with us out to California.  I can't pay you the same kind of moolah that you'd get here, but I'm sure there would be other perks.  Like a certain redhead bein' around."

The proposal chilled Wesley's veins.  "I…I…I don't know what to say."  That's an understatement, he thought, his mind racing.

"Sayin' yeah would be a start."

"I…I'd have to…think about it."  Another understatement.

Spike nodded, as if he expected nothing less.  "A big change, I know.  Even if you don't, I think it might be a good idea if you took a little vacation until this blew over.  Go under with Red so that you're safe from bein' tailed again.  Not that I don't think you can't take care of yourself, but I'd hate for something to happen to you at this stage of the game."

"I…I'll need to speak with Angel tonight.  I…appreciate your concern, of course, but certain…appearances must be maintained, or Angel will become suspicious."  He smiled at an attempt at levity.  "I'm rather known as a workaholic around here.  Taking time off could be…tricky."

"Do what's best.  I trust your judgment."  With a nod, Spike began sauntering toward the door, stepping carefully around the blood that was staining the floor.  Before he could reach the exit, though, Wesley called after him.

"About Wolfram and Hart…"  He waited until the blond had turned to regard him.  "I have certain contacts.  It would be very easy for me to have them investigate those lawyers and see if there is anything we might be able to use."

"Do that," Spike said.  "And thanks."

In for a penny, in for a pound, Wesley thought as the other man left.  I have no idea how I'm going to justify a background check on a law firm I've never mentioned before to Jenny, but I'm going to have to find a way.

His nose wrinkled as he finally became aware of the scent of blood permeating the club.

As soon as I get this mess cleaned up.

*************

He was cute, and obviously intelligent, but Faith had decided early on that Lindsey couldn't really do anything for her.  Still, it didn't hurt to have a lawyer on your side, she thought as she poured him another drink.  No telling when a girl like her might need some protecting from the law.

"So how'd you get your mitts on the police report so fast?" she asked as she handed him the tumbler.

"Let's just say I'm resourceful," he replied with a grin.

"That was a neat trick you pulled with the cop bitch," she commented, draping herself across the chair opposite him.  "It's the dames you've really got to watch out for, you know.  They'll stab you in the back, every single time."

"Should I consider that a warning?" he teased.

"Consider it a lesson," Faith countered.  

"Not to be playing devil's advocate, but that one didn't really seem all that bad."  Lindsey took a sip of his drink, gauging her reaction.  "Not every cop psychologist makes house calls."

"I don't need a headshrinker.  I need them to get off their asses and nail Rook to the wall."

"You don't think they will?"

She shrugged.  "Let's just say, Faith's faith in law enforcement is a little shaky," she said with a half-grin at her pun.  "In case you didn't know it, Rook's the best.  Did their report say he scrammed out of here under the noses of more than thirty cops?  Or that Finn lost his other eyewitness before anyone even got a chance to question him?  Of course it didn't.  'Cause that would make them look like the idiots they are."

"You don't sound too fond of Rook."

"Gimme one good reason why I should be.  Just because I'm not exactly sporting a wedding ring doesn't mean I didn't care about Richard, and that bastard went and killed him.  So, yeah, I won't be inviting him around for tea and crumpets any time soon."

Setting down his glass, Lindsey leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.  "This is why it would be advantageous for you to work with me in trying to catch him, Faith," he said.  "Your desire to see him punished is just as strong as my client's, and together, I believe we could see it through to the end."

"And what makes you think I'm so valuable?" she quizzed.

"Because he knows you.  And more importantly, you know him.  I'm more than aware of your little conversation with him in the alley behind Heaven the other night.  Care to share what was so important you had to follow him outside?"

Her eyes narrowed.  "How'd you know about that?"

"Like I said.  Resourceful."

Whoever he was representing must've been after Rook for awhile, Faith decided.  Following him.  That could be the only reason she'd been spotted talking to him.  Maybe she should tread just a little more carefully around this guy.

"I recognized him," she said.  "From the old days.  I wanted to know what he was doin' hanging around Heaven."  No way was she going to spill on the details about Buffy.  That was her ace in the hole.  She was going to keep that one close to the vest.

"Did he give you any indication that he was going to be killing the Mayor?"

She shook her head.  "Just said he was in town on business.  Even promised to stay away from the club."

"Now…why would he do that?"

Her smile was more of a leer.  "Because I asked him _real _nice."  She rose to her feet and crossed to the door, not bothering to look behind her.  "I think it might be time for you to go now.  I'm tired of playing twenty questions and I've got a nail appointment in half an hour."

He hesitated before standing, his gaze steady on her waiting form in the open entrance.  "You're missing a valuable opportunity here, Faith," he said.  "My client is very wealthy.  He'd be more than happy to reimburse you for any troubles or expense you may incur in helping us."

"In case you haven't noticed, Linds," she replied, "I'm not exactly hurting for dough right now.  Money isn't going to motivate me when I trust you about as far as I can throw you."  She was lying through her teeth.  What she needed right now more than anything else _was_ money if she wanted to get out from under Angel's thumb.  But, better the devil she knew than the devil she didn't.

"I have a suite at the Plaza," he said as he picked up his briefcase.  "Please.  I want you to call me the second you change your mind."  Lindsey paused in the doorway.  "I'm the smartest person you've got on your side, Faith," he said.  "And I _don't_ lose.  Just…remember that."

She held the door open long after he was gone, his words echoing around among her thoughts.  Her side.  The only one on her side was herself, regardless of what the mouthpiece had to say.  Spike had made sure of that, by stripping Richard away from her and leaving her in Angel's hands.

Faith's eyes fluttered shut as she finally closed the door, leaning heavily against it, all her pent-up energy suddenly sapped.  An hour in the shower and scrubbing her skin raw with her nailbrush still hadn't eradicated the memory of his hands on her, pinching and poking and scratching and hitting, hurting in ways she knew Buffy had never known.  Not his perfect princess.  B was on a pedestal and all those destructive needs that the new head of the family had were too shameful to be exhibited in front of his golden girl.  Leave those for his whores.

She'd never really liked him, but now, with every demeaning thing he had said to her the previous night, the words he'd whispered in her ear that had made her skin crawl, Faith hated Angel with even more passion than William Rook.  What she wouldn't give to see him suffer for everything he had done, staked and skewered like the monster only she seemed to realize he was.

But no.  That was beyond her at the moment.  There was no way she could take him on her own.  And besides, she already had her sights set on Spike.  Only one target at a time.

No, she'd leave the bigger fish for someone else to catch.  The question had always been, though…who?  Something Lindsey had said niggled at the back of her mind---_smartest person on your side­_---bringing the answer into sharp relief, flashing as if in neon before her eyes.

Lindsey McDonald may potentially be the smartest person on her side, but he wasn't the smartest person she knew.

And that other one would be thrilled to be able to net this baby, she thought.  He's waited too long for a break like this to pass on it now.

*************

"So the only question remaining is, when?"  Giles looked around the table, as if searching the other faces would somehow provide him his answer.

"What's wrong with ten minutes ago?" Xander asked.

"Because we don't even know if they're currently at the hotel," Willow said patiently.  "We need to grab him when we're certain he's there."

"Plus, if he's hanging around with the same types who showed up at Heaven today---."

"Or yesterday," Willow interjected.

"---or yesterday," Buffy went on, "we need to assess what our firepower is going to be.  How many need to go in.  What they need to be packing."

All four of them looked at her curiously.  "And you're _sure_ you've never done anything like this before?" Xander asked.

"Look at who I've been hanging out with for the past three years," she offered in explanation.  "You don't think I picked up a trick or two from Angel?"

"Think tomorrow's probably the earliest we'll be able to do it safely," Spike said, drumming his fingers along the tabletop.  "I'm not prepared to lose anyone on this for bein' sloppy."

"I'd say that's an accurate assessment," Giles agreed.  "That will afford us plenty of time to gather the information we need and finalize our plans."

Xander reached for a pastry from the plate in the middle of the table.  "Tell me again why we're snatching the guy lawyer and not the girl."

"Because Lindsey McDonald is the only one who's ever been in contact with us," Willow explained.  "We have to assume he's the one with all the cards on who he's working for."

"Why do you think they brought the other one in?"  This was posed around a mouthful of donut, and the brunette wiped furiously at the crumbs that fell onto his lap.

"Don't know, don't care," Spike said.

The group was silent for a moment, and then Buffy cleared her throat.  "Not to have everyone thinking I'm on the wacky juice," she said, "but…I've got this theory.  About who might be behind all this."  She squirmed as all attention became focused on her.  She'd been debating all day whether or not to bring it up, but now that they had decided their next course of action was going to be kidnapping Lindsey McDonald---another crime to add to their growing list---she couldn't hold it back any longer.  Not that she wasn't in this up to her neck already, but if it could be resolved without any more lawbreaking, Buffy was going to pursue that route until she was blue in the face.

"Who?" Willow asked curiously.

"Well, Spike told me about the blackmail.  That the lawyers knew all this stuff about all three of you, but especially details about his past, things he'd done that he thought nobody knew about."  She waited for assenting nods from the others.  "I started wondering about where'd they get that kind of information, who might know those kind of details, and I kept coming back to the same name."  She took a deep breath.  "Drusilla Conti."

Spike's frown was immediate, and the hand that had been stroking the back of hers pulled away.  "Dru?  Why in bloody hell would Dru want to set me up?"

Buffy shrugged, her stomach suddenly in knots.  Damn.  This was how she thought he'd react.  He might be long over the dark-haired beauty, but that didn't mean he didn't still have a blind spot where she was concerned.  "It was just an idea," she backpeddled.  "It just made sense to me.  She was there for a lot of it, you said.  Plus, she's got the resources to hire a high-class operation like Wolfram and Hart."

"She has a point," Giles said.

"I don't care if she's got a fleet full of points," Spike snapped, rising so harshly to his feet that his chair fell over backwards.  "There's no way in hell Dru would've set me up."

Buffy's eyes were shiny as she watched him storm from the storage room, slamming the door so hard behind him that a jar of pickles tumbled from a nearby shelf to shatter on the floor.  This was the reaction she'd feared.  I should've just kept my big mouth shut, she thought miserably.  He trusted me with the story of him and Drusilla, and I just turned around and threw it back in his face.

She was barely aware of Willow's hand on hers, patting it reassuringly.  "It's all right," the redhead said softly.  "Spike just has a tendency to get weird when she gets brought up.  It doesn't have anything to do with you."

"I know," she replied.  "I just…I want to make sure we've explored all our options.  And she seemed like one."

"As she should."  Giles straightened his glasses as he rose from his seat.  "I'm going to have a word with Spike."  Once at the door, he hesitated, glancing back at the table.  "It was an excellent suggestion, Buffy," he said.

She didn't answer him.  Yeah, excellent, she thought bitterly.  Especially if Spike ends up hating me for bringing it up in the first place.

*************

He didn't even look up when the door opened, staring instead at the cigarette between his fingers, watching as the ash fell to the ground to scatter with the slight breeze.  "Buffy's wrong about Dru," Spike said softly.  She had to be.  How could his savior also be his damnation?

"Maybe.  Maybe not."  Leaning against the wall beside his friend, Giles held out his hand.  "I don't suppose you have another of those," he asked, gesturing toward the cigarette.

Spike's laugh was more of a bark as passed over the pack.  "Didn't realize you were wound up that tight about this," he said, watching the other man light up.  "You only smoke when you can't relax any other way."

"It's remarkable how tense plotting a kidnapping and gunning down three complete strangers can be," Giles replied before taking a deep drag.

The two men stood mute, the smoke billowing around their heads, two sets of blue eyes dark as the world vanished around them and they lost themselves in their thoughts.

For Spike, it was a maze of memories.  Flashes of Dru's face…the scent of her skin…her willowy form pressed to his…her fickle behavior and how many times he'd tried to please her.  And then the worst.  The last.  Seeing her in bed with the other man.  Hearing her scream someone else's name.  Ripping out his heart and then telling Spike he wasn't good enough.

For Giles, the world was California, and the changes that had been wrought in his life ever since hooking up with Spike.  His path could've been a lot darker had the other Englishman not stumbled across it, and for that, he would always be grateful.  The last thing he wanted was for Spike to suffer because of his own delusions about his history.

"I think you should go see her," Giles suggested quietly as he dropped his spent cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe.  When he felt Spike stiffen, he hastened to add, "Just to talk.  If you're right and she's not connected to all this, she still might know something that would prove helpful.  She's never left the city.  She could be aware of circumstances that we aren't."

"I can't, Rupert."  His voice was so low, Giles had to strain to hear it, sighing inwardly at the use of his Christian name.  He only used that when he was feeling particularly morose, or particularly drunk.  "I haven't really seen her since…since…"  He couldn't even say it out loud.  "I see Dru now, and it'll kill me."

Even as he stated the next, Giles hated himself for resorting to such tactics.  "If you don't see her now," he said, "it could kill us all."  He felt the energy leech from Spike's shoulders, sagging as his head dropped, and rushed to add, "Besides, now you have Buffy, and she's worth ten Drusilla Conti's.  I know I was…suspicious of her before, but today…she's…she cares for you.   I'm sorry I ever doubted her."

He'd lost.  He knew it.  "What if it _is_ Dru?"  His eyes were bleak as he lifted them to stare at his friend.  "What'll I do?"

"You'll deal with it.  Just like you always do.  You're the strongest person I know, Spike.  You'll get through this."

Silence again, but this time, it wasn't the past each was dwelling upon.  "I'll get it over with now," Spike said, pushing away from the wall.  Though his step was heavy, his tone was calm, back to business.  "Make sure the birds are safe, and leave a message with Mickey when you want to meet up to go over the plan.  If I don't hear from you by midnight, I'll give you a ring."

"Do you need Xander?" Giles offered.

Spike shook his head, walking away from the diner.  "I've got some people I can call," he said, his voice floating back.  "You lot just stay focused on the lawyer."

*************

Everything had taken much longer than he'd anticipated, but looking over the now-clean backstage area of the club, Wesley was just grateful that nobody had shown up while everything was being cleared out.  One of the advantages for working for someone who routinely had to worry about this sort of thing, he thought as he locked the door of his office.  Though it had never been his direct responsibility, finding the people to do the job had been simple, and the police would never be the wiser.  He doubted even the bodies would ever show up.

The call was done to Jenny, as well.  She had been surprised to hear from him so quickly, and though he thought he detected a note of hesitation on her part, she had agreed to find everything she could on Wolfram and Hart.  Now, he only had to wait for the information to come in.

Spike's offer was still giving him pause.  Though the prospect of being in such close proximity with Willow was tempting, the fact of the matter remained that, really, they had only just met.  She didn't even know the truth about his position.  How could he commit to something on such a scale while still being dishonest with her?  He was prepared to leave the department, but would she even want him, knowing he'd lied to her?

Spike was right about his safety, though.  It was compromised by his actions with the attorney.  Something would have to be done about that and quickly; laying low with Willow at his side while they attempted to solve her friend's current conundrum was actually quite appealing.

Wesley was startled from his reverie when the back door of the club twisted under his grip, seemingly opening of its own accord.  He frowned, wondering just which employee was showing up so early for work, only to be met with the smiling face of the last person he expected to see at the moment.

"Hey there, Wes old boy," Faith said.  "Just the devil I'm looking for…"

To be continued in Chapter 21: The Tip-Off…


	21. The TipOff

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy has suggested Drusilla might know something about what's going on so Spike has decided to go see her, while Faith has dropped in at Heaven to see Wesley…

*************

At least he knew he hadn't been tailed.  Coming out of the alley behind Heaven, Faith had watched him in amusement, scarlet lips cocked into a wry smile, as Wes had quickly scanned the street before hailing the first cab that passed by them.  A circuitous route, some off-color remarks from the brunette, and fifteen minutes later, he was satisfied enough to have the taxi pull up to a dive he'd never frequent in a million years during his normal life.

Except he'd pretty much chucked normal out the window the second he'd hooked up with Willow.

Holding the door open for his companion was automatic, and Wes waited as Faith walked in with a wiggle that suggested she owned the place, head held high, a knowing curve on her lips.  Over the past few years, his interactions with the brunette had always been in a professional capacity, seeing her with the Mayor, speaking with her at social engagements.  To this day, he still could not figure her out.  There was no doubting she lacked any sort of proper breeding or manners, and it would've been easy to quickly dismiss her as just another floozy for Mr. Wilkins to distract himself with; many people had done just that.  Yet, her devotion to the older man had been complete, and more than once, Wesley had witnessed a surprisingly tender scene between the couple, leaving him to wonder if perhaps there was more to her than met the eye after all.

Her words had been brief back at Heaven.  "Need to talk to you," she'd said.  "I think you and me might have…stories that could interest each other."

His first instinct was that she knew about his connection with Spike.  That would be disastrous.  Nothing she did, however, indicated any ill will toward him.  In fact, if Wesley didn't know better, he would rather think she was very amicable toward him.  A quick look at his watch, and he admitted to being able to spare a few minutes, as long as their conversation didn't happen at Heaven.  Her brows had lifted at that, but she'd not challenged him, following him to this tiny booth in the corner of the bar.

"Wanna drink?" she asked as she waved for the bartender to come over.

Wesley shook his head.  "My time's rather limited," he said, and waited as she ordered a whiskey sour for herself.

Pulling out a pack of cigarettes from her purse, Faith held them up in query.  "Mind if I smoke?"  There was no mistaking his amused glance around the room, and she laughed with him when she realized he was actually the only one in the joint _not_ smoking.  "Guess not," she said, lighting up.

Steady blue eyes regarded her for a long moment as her lips pursed around the cigarette.  "How are you doing?" Wesley finally asked.

She turned her head to exhale away from him before answering.  "Snug as a bug in a rug," she quipped.

Her tone was artificially light, and his lips thinned.  "Really?  Because you don't exactly _look_ like you're doing very well."

"Gee, you really know how to cheer a girl up, don't you?"  The light was gone from Faith's gaze as she reached for the ashtray, and he frowned when he saw the scarf she wore around her neck slip to reveal the beginnings of a mottled bruise.  "I think you missed your calling, Wes," she joked coldly as she settled back into her seat.  "Something warm and fuzzy's more your style, I think."

"What happened?"  The question was out before he could think not to ask, concern for her darkening his face.  When she looked at him blankly, he gestured toward her neck.  "How'd you get hurt?"

"Oh.  That."  Another long drag on her cigarette, and all of a sudden, her nails seemed incredibly interesting to her.  "It's nothing.  Went looking for a pair of shoes that I'd stashed and ended up pulling the whole closet down on top of me.  It's nothing."

He didn't believe her, but the look on her face told him there was no way she was going to shift on her story.  Any other pro skirt and he would've immediately assumed it was just a hazard of the trade.  But in the time he'd seen her with Wilkins, not once had she ever sported as much as a paper cut.  Theirs was not that kind of relationship.

"You still look tired," he said as gently as he could manage.  "Were the police gruelling?"

"You can't possibly be talkin' about the Keystone coppers," she spat.  "They're a fucking joke."

"You…don't think they'll…catch who did it?"  He had to be careful.  Although details of the murder had made the morning press, specifics were being withheld as to the identity of the shooter.  Nobody was supposed to know that Spike was the one who'd done it.  Oh, except of course, that Angel had tipped him off immediately afterward so he could always use that as an excuse should he let something slip.

Faith's eyes were wary as she took a long drag on her cigarette.  "What do you know about Rook?" she finally asked.

"Not a lot.  Just that Mr. Wilkins asked me to look into his presence in the city."  That much was true.  No reason to lie about that, especially since it was likely she already knew.

She didn't.  Immediately, the brunette tensed, sitting up from where she'd been sexily slouching.  "When?" she demanded.

Wesley's brow furrowed.  "The night before he was killed."

Her eyes shifted, focusing somewhere off to the side while her head did the calculations to place the time.  "When I was in the damn car," she muttered, not even looking at him.  "Fuck, Richard.  What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Every word from her mouth was only unsettling him further, augmenting his curiosity to drive him forward, his fingers lacing as he locked his gaze on her.  "What is it you wished to speak to me about, Faith?" he queried.

Her chin lifted, brown eyes fixing on blue.  "Payback."  She didn't even look down as she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.  "I don't know what you found out, but William Rook's a gun for hire.  I know that, the cops know that.  The thing of it is, though, the cops don't care."

"And you do…"  Slowly, understanding was beginning to dawn, and his mouth tightened even as his heart began to pound in ferment.  Easy, he silently soothed.  She hasn't said anything real yet.  "I still don't understand why you're telling this to me."

"Two reasons.  One, you're the smartest guy I know, so if anyone can figure out who the bastard is who paid off Rook, you can."

"Are you saying you know?"

She hesitated just a fraction too long.  "If I knew, don't you think I'd be doing something more than just sitting here, jawing about it?"

His face was implacable, but behind the mask, Wesley's mind was a tumult as the permutations of what this could mean began to tally.  If Faith could be persuaded to talk, Spike could have the answer he was seeking all that much sooner, and this entire escapade could be concluded with little more fanfare.  Draw it to a close, and he could more realistically consider his future with Willow, free from the fetters of whatever was shackling her to Rook.  The possibility was exciting.

He showed none of this, stating instead, "You said there were two reasons."

Her drink arrived then, and she regarded him in silence while she waited for the bartender to leave them in peace again.  "I'm going to be on the square with you, Wes," she said calmly.  "You and me…we've never really had the chance to just sit down and chew the fat, so what you know about me is probably just what you've seen with those blue peepers of yours.  Am I right?"

His reply was a slow nod.  Where was she going with this?

"I'm not such a mystery girl, you know.  Spent most of my life on my back in one way or another until Richard got me out of it, and then just made sure I had a really soft pillow for my head while I did it just for him.  Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not complaining here.  It's just the way life goes."

"What are you going to do now that Mr. Wilkins is…dead?"

She took a sip of her drink.  "Not important.  What _is_ important is that I know there's a lot more to _you_ than meets the eye."

It was Faith's nonchalance that was most chilling.  No cracks in her façade, no raising of her voice.  She just sat there, scarlet-tipped nails running along the edge of her whiskey tumbler, watching his reaction.

"I'm assuming…this has something to do with your second reason," he said evenly.  No reaction.  He'd spent too many years under the scrutiny of people far more dangerous than Faith to fail now.

"Betcha didn't know I've never been busted," she announced proudly.  "Not a single time.  That's because I can spot the players a mile away.  For both teams."  The corner of her mouth lifted.  "I consider that my own little gift."

"Quite a…valuable one, considering your vocation of choice."

"Didn't you ever wonder why you never got sucked into the family until right there at the end?" she asked.  "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, the king of squeak."  Another sip of her drink.  "That was all me, baby.  I'm the one who convinced Richard to keep you out of the loop.  How helpful it would be to have someone to hold up to the cops, who wouldn't be able to give anything away ever."

"Why?  Why would you do that?"  Fingers of dread crept with icy certainty beneath his shirtsleeves, raising his skin in gooseflesh as the first indication of an outsider gaining a foothold in destroying everything he'd tried to create started to leak into his awareness.

"Because the last thing I've ever wanted was for someone to try and take Richard away from me," she said simply.  "And you would've done that, given half a chance."  Faith's gaze bored into his.  "I don't know who it is you work for, Wes, but if you're not hooked into some type of do-gooder group with delusions of trying to clean up the streets, I'll eat my hat."  She smirked.  "Hell, I'll even eat your hat if I'm wrong."

He'd never even suspected.  All his time at Heaven, and the possibility that Faith of all people would recognize his true identity had never occurred to him.  But if she'd known… "You never told Wilkins," he murmured.

Faith shrugged.  "What was the point?  As long as you were leashed, you weren't doing any harm.  And Richard liked you.  Besides, I always like to have a little insurance policy tucked away, for those rainy days, you know what I mean?  And doll, today, it's cats and dogs out there."

It made sense to him now.  In spite of her bravado, she was terrified.  She'd have to be.  Knowing who he was, knowing who _she_ was, it could only be desperation that would drive her to ask for his help.  She was running scared, a little girl playing dress-up, hiding behind the make-up of her profession, and though an unexpected pang of sympathy for her leapt into his heart, Wesley was convinced she knew more than she was saying.  She knew who was behind the hit in the first place, and that was the exact thing he needed to get Willow to safety.  Take care of the bad guy and see to it that they couldn't hurt her again.  Spike's safety was just a side effect of that.  He had no delusions that he was doing this for any other reason than for the redhead who had somehow wormed her way into his soul.  Only for Willow.  For whatever future they might have.

"Tell me what you know, Faith," Wes said firmly.  Carefully, he reached forward and placed his hand over hers in an attempt to reassure her.  "That's the only way I can do anything to help you."

She shook her head, and he saw the shutters drop over her eyes.  "I already told you, I know from nothing."

"You do.  You wouldn't have tried this if someone wasn't scaring you.  Are you in some kind of jam?"

Anger flared then, and she yanked her hand away as if his touch scalded.  "Don't you be trying to headshrink me, too," she snapped.  "I'm just jakeloo.  I just want to see the bastard swing."  Grabbing her purse, Faith slid from the booth, cold fury seething in her muscles.  Twin spots of color uncharacteristically flushed her cheeks, and he watched as she swallowed hard, staring down at him as she hesitated.  "You're a smart gee, Wes.  You'll figure it out.  You have to."

His limbs were frozen as he watched her stride confidently away, ignoring the various sets of eyes that turned to follow her exit.  Have to.  Like he actually had a choice about it.  Well, technically, he probably did, but not really.  Not with his heart now belonging to a certain redhead, and his loyalties lying god knew where.

He was on his feet before he even realized it, long legs crossing the distance to the door, his hand wrapping around Faith's elbow as she stood in the open entrance.  "Give me something," Wesley said, blinking against the brilliance of the sunshine as she looked up at him.  "Anything."

Slowly, she extracted herself from his grip, but didn't move, brown eyes unwavering as they searched his.  "Follow the money," she finally said.  "Just…follow the money."

And with that, she was gone.

*************

"You OK there, pal?"  From the driver's seat, Clem's voice was chipper, but Spike knew without even having to look over that his friend sensed something was wrong.

"Be better once I get this over with," he muttered.  Pulling the hat down further over his bleached curls, he watched the pedestrians strolling past, oblivious to the man in the waiting car near them, and felt a stab of envy for anyone and everyone who had a simpler life than he.  Figuring out who ordered the hit wasn't so much what was bothering him.  What ate at Spike's heart now was being forced to confront the woman who'd started that spiral of destruction he'd travelled before leaving the city the first time.

He'd never seen her again after that night of her betrayal.  Somehow, the idea of facing Dru, knowing how she felt, the memory of her voice calling out the other man's name still ringing in his brain, had never been a route he'd desired.  Didn't stop him from ruminating on it when the drink took control of his mouth, though.  Poor Red had been the brunt of more than one diatribe about the dissolution of his past.  Even Harris had been roped in once to listen to him rant and rave.  Their patience had been silent, offering a shoulder to cry upon or a quiet pat on the back for assurance.

But it hadn't given Spike the closure he so desperately needed to let go of that chapter of his life.

What Dru had done---betraying his hopes, his faith, his belief that he knew his place in the world---had ripped him apart just as effectively as seeing Nikki Wood's dead body at his feet.  It had taken him five years to find someone he thought he could trust again like that, and the irony that he'd found it by coming back to his old haunts didn't elude him.  If nothing else, losing Dru had helped him discover Buffy.  He guessed he should be grateful to her for that, at least.

"Who's she got minding her these days?" Spike asked when the car started moving again, desperate to distract himself from ugly cogitations.

"You'll see," Clem replied with a wide grin.  "Then you'll know why this wasn't such a big deal to set up."

"I appreciate it, you know."

His friend waved him off.  "It's not like it's any different to the old days.  But I guess that's why you were interested in that Buffy dame, huh?  Because of whacking the Mayor?"

"I didn't even know she had a part in the story 'til I hit town.  I'm considering her a perk."

"A perk whose fiancé is now head of the Wilkins family.  Maybe not your brightest move, William."

This subject of conversation wasn't turning out any better than the other, and Spike pressed his lips together in order to hold back the angry retort that automatically sprang there.  No reason to drag Clem even more into his mess.  It was easier for the poor guy to cart his sorry ass around while he tried to clear up this hit business than it was for him to try and dissect the ins and outs of Spike's maze of a lovelife.  Not that Spike considered it all that difficult.  Well, except for the Angel part of it.  And the less he thought of that, the better it was.

He glanced out the window as the car eased to the curb, remembering the building that shone brilliantly beside him from the days of his past.  "Some things never change," Spike mumbled.

"You remember how to get there?" Clem asked.

"Couldn't hardly forget.  Only brought Dru to these damn spa days for a decade myself, if you recall."

"I'll be at Lucky's around the corner when you're done."

Giving his friend a small nod in thanks, Spike climbed from the car and strode quickly into the building, keeping his head ducked to avoid being recognized by anyone who might wish the cops had actually managed to snag him at Wilkins'.  A lot of family types came to this place for the treatment, so he wouldn't have stood out under normal circumstances.  Today, though, was far from normal. 

Every inch of his skin felt like it was racing to be free of his body as he stepped off the elevator and onto the twenty-third floor.  He didn't even look at the main entrance of the spa; he knew exactly how to get to where she was without having to face off with a bunch of snooty dames who probably hadn't been laid since Wilson was in office.  Pulling open the unmarked employee entrance instead, he hurried down the long corridor it led in to, bypassing all the doors until he reached the one he wanted at the end.

Almost immediately, Spike was stopped short by a black barrel chest, his gaze raking upward to see the thick neck, the black eyes, the closely cropped black hair.  His mouth spread into a grin, and his hand shot out to clap the man on the shoulder.  "Well, bugger me," he said with a laugh.  "Now I know why Clem was being so tight with the information on who Dru's bodyguard was.  I guess life's lookin' good for you, Gino."

A meaty hand came up to mirror the blond's greeting, and Gino's answering smile was just as amiable.  "Tell me what else a dumb mug like me's goin' to be doing with his life," he joked.

A long time ago, in a lifetime he sometimes tried to forget, Spike had called Gino one of his best friends, often partners in whatever work needed to be done for old man Conti, more often drinking buddies while they commiserated about anything that caught their fancy.  Gino, with his polite manner and staunch loyalty, had been one of the few that Dru had actually liked Spike hanging around with, so it really came as no surprise that the gentle giant was now acting as her bodyguard.  He may not have been bright, but he knew how to use his fists, and was fierce in his old-fashioned need to protect anyone who held a vaguely feminine form.  He and Spike had had a lot in common in that way.

"You're looking…different," Gino commented as they parted, black eyes flickering to the bleached locks that poked out from beneath the brim.

With a wry smile, Spike took off the hat and ran his hand through the unruly curls.  "Think you'd be amazed what it does for the dames.  Speaking of which---."

"Don't."  Gino cut him off with a wave of his hand.  "Me and dames is not a good thing right now."

"Too bad.  You know, it's a shame we didn't hook up when I first blew into town.  I've got this associate who'd knock your socks off---."

"You're gettin' my hopes up here, Spike.  Stop messing around."

"---except she's already hooked herself with someone else," the blond finished.

"You tell me she was smart, too, I'll knock your block off for bringing it up in the first place."

"OK, I won't.  Except she is."

"Figures.  Good ones are always taken."

For the first time since entering, Spike saw the sterile waiting room in which he stood, everything still all in white just as it had been five years ago.  His gaze settled on the other door, and his mouth thinned.  "She alone?" he asked quietly, all mirth gone from his voice.

"As alone as someone who hears voices can be," Gino joked.

Spike's lips quirked, in spite of his growing trepidation.  "That's my Dru," he murmured, and with a deep breath, stepped forward.

Entering the adjoining room was like taking a step back in time, and Spike felt the years melt away as he stopped just inside the entrance, blue eyes sweeping around the luxurious interior.  One wall was lined with the cupboards that housed the spa's supplies, while the others were painted a soft white, impressionist prints in gilt frames breaking up the expanse.  The plush couch opposite was a deep red, and there, in the middle of the room, was the lounging bed on which the clients rested during their treatment.

She was there now, stretched against the black leather, her skin deathly pale compared to the ebony it rested against.  A white sheet was draped over her body, leaving her shoulders, arms, and feet exposed, and Spike knew from experience that she would be nude beneath it, a lump settling in his throat as the last time he'd seen her unclothed came unbidden to his mind's eye.  He was saved from completely reliving the memory, though, when he noted the cream mask covering her face, her lashes dark, her eyes closed.  Even if he tried, he wouldn't be able to see how time had treated his first love, wouldn't have to witness the tiny lines that would most likely be collecting at the corners of her eyes.  He wasn't sure yet if that was a good thing or not.

"And so he comes, riding in on his black steed, burning brightly in the sun."  Though her voice was barely a murmur, Spike had no trouble discerning her words, a wave of nostalgia overriding the wrench tightening around his heart as her lyricism carried with it memories of more pleasant times.  She smiled, but her eyes never opened.  "Hello, William."

"Drusilla."  He'd always loved the way her name felt on his tongue, and had to shake his head to loosen the thrall it invoked, prowling around the edge of the room so that he could sit facing the door.  "You don't seem surprised to see me."

She remained perfectly still, no muscle anywhere in her sleek frame acknowledging that he'd changed position within the room so quickly.  "Miss Edith told me you were back," she said.  "It was only a matter of time before you came."

Spike snorted.  "Is that old biddy still alive?"  It didn't surprise him that she knew about him; the old woman had always been the first to know everything.  Miss Edith had been a fixture of the Conti household when he'd first shown up, technically labelled as the housekeeper, but more like Dru's personal assistant than anything else.  She'd been ancient then; it was hard to believe she could still be around without being a big pile of dust.

"I hear William has been a naughty boy."  There was no mistaking the glee in her voice, a sound that had once driven Spike to distraction, living in a state of perpetual debauchery as the world swirled dangerously around the pair of them.  Now, though, it made his blood run cold, the song long abandoned within to be replaced by death knells.  "Have you come to share your fun?"

"I came to get some answers."

He knew she was pouting, even though he couldn't see her face.  "Answers are trivial," she said.  "It's the questions that are fascinating.  Remember when Daddy asked you to interrogate that dreadfully dull accountant with the harelip?  That was a joyous night."

He remembered.  He remembered how the wanker had refused to talk, how Dru had grown frustrated by the wait and made the first slice herself.  He remembered how the blood had trickled from the man's bound limbs, pooling onto the warehouse floor, and he remembered how she had danced around them as Spike tried to get the information old man Conti wanted.  He also remembered that it had taken forever for the git to die, and he never did get what he wanted.  

Funny she calls that joyous, Spike thought.  Even then, though they'd spent hours in bed together afterward, he'd been left feeling empty and unfulfilled, trying to replace the sense of discontent with almost anything else.  That she would remember that as one of their good nights only made him think that perhaps their parting was inevitable.

"What do you know about my fun, pet?" he asked, keeping his eyes on her in the possibility that she would actually move.

"Only whispers.  Daddy's insisting we go to the funeral.  I'd get out of it if I didn't know that Angel would be there."

The sigh when she said his name confirmed for Spike what Buffy had said, and he bit back the bile that rose in his throat at the notion of coming up second to the tosser yet again.  First Buffy, now Dru.  Red washed before his eyes, his fingers clawing into the cushions, and he had to force himself to remain seated.  Don't let her see how it still hurts, he ordered, but the bite of tears threatening to spill made his teeth grind in frustration.

"I'm sure it's going to be an awful ceremony," Drusilla was saying.  "That torcher trollop will most likely sing as well.  Fingers down a blackboard."  She laughed.  "You should really go.  Wouldn't it be funny to see Angel's face if he saw you?"  
Yeah, bloody fucking hysterical, he thought.  He inhaled sharply, steadying his nerves.  Focus.  Buffy chose you, remember?  And if Dru wants to play the princess and try to take Buffy's place, then who're you to try and stop her?  Grown woman there.  Free as a bird, capable of making her own decisions.  She'd certainly proved that much in the past.

"So's this Angel the new conquest?" he asked glibly.  "Heard tell you haven't been able to keep anyone in your bed for more than month or so.  In fact, I believe the phrase used was… 'like fucking a bloody corpse.'"  Not exactly true, but all he wanted at that moment was to hurt her, and the fact that she was panting around Wilkins was all the ammunition he needed.

She moved then, sitting up and swinging her long legs over the side of the lounger, the sheet dropping to pool at her waist.  Oblivious to her nudity, Dru stared at him, blue eyes drilling into blue, and he saw her fingers wrap like talons into the cotton at her sides.  "I believe you're the expert on corpses, William."  Every shred of the façade she'd worn was stripped away, leaving the brittle core of the woman he'd once loved left to face him.  "How warm has _your_ bed been?  Met any nice dancers recently?"

The air seemed to be sucked from the room, and Nikki's face wavered over Dru's as Spike's gaze tunnelled.  Why was he so surprised she knew?  Miss Edith probably found out and whispered it in her ear, sharing the laugh between them, the sick bitches.  Yet, being confronted with the truth, hearing her callous tone burn his ears, he stung in the deadly needle pricks that only the unexpected could elicit.

She laughed at his consternation.  "Big Bad William's lost his bite," she gloated.  "Did you lose your teeth when you left her body to sway with the dead?"

"How do you know about that?" he growled.  "How do you know that was me?"

"Silly.  _Everybody_ knows."  She brought a finger to her lips as if to quiet him, and then said,  "Mustn't spill the secrets, though.  Not done.  It's just not done."

With a predator's grace, Spike rose to his feet, eyes hooded as he sauntered to stand before her.  Slowly, purposely, he lifted his hand, spreading it so that it lightly clutched the front of her throat.

Drusilla didn't move.  As the tips of his fingers pressed into the soft flesh of her neck, she smiled instead, cold eyes glittering, the mask that covered her face breaking into spidery cracks along her cheeks.

"What do you know about secrets, Dru?" he asked, his voice a silken whisper that dripped in promises of blood.  "What is it you want to tell me?"

"I know William's been a bad boy," she said.  There was no indication in her tone that she was suffering from his grip, but her body was rigid before him.  "And I know all his dead are crying out for vengeance.  Can you hear them?  So lovely, so painful.  They sing with the stars, you know."

He froze when she lifted her hand and ran the back of it along the slope of his cheek.  As tenuous a caress as he'd ever received from his dark princess, and his own hand faltered, his hold on her weakening.  "Tell me who it is, pet," he said, and hated the entreaty that softened the cadences of his words.  "Who's behind all this?"

"The only thing behind you is the past, William.  And you can't kill what's already dead."

"Is it you?  Are you the one who sold my soul to those lawyers?"  He had to ask, though why he bothered, Spike had no idea.  He couldn't even bring himself to make her hurt beyond the superficial wounds he'd created with his words.  How could he trust anything she had to say when she could still manipulate him so?

Slowly, Drusilla shook her head, raven locks falling about her shoulders.  "It's not mine to sell," she said.  Lissom fingers began swirling in curls above the front of his shirt, bewitching and confusing all at the same time.  "It was, once upon a time.  And then it burned from too much passion, and went whimpering and fearful off into the dark."  She smiled.  "I'm glad you found it again.  Glowing, and glistening.  It's where your wealth lies, you know."

Transfixed.  Like the spider before the snake.  Yet he tried to break the spell she'd woven anyway.  "Stop with the rubbish, Dru.  I don't have time for your riddles."  No strength in his voice, though.  No conviction.  Just blue eyes caught by blue eyes, and his heart pounding inside his chest.

It didn't stop her.  "Every knight should have a champion.  To rally the crowds and inspire greatness.  I tried to give that to you, but I failed, and I shattered you in the process.  My heart has always wept for that."

"No, you didn't.  It…didn't."  Spike was hoarse, his denial rasping in the too-silent room, but he couldn't tear himself away.  How dare she try to make what happened between them be about her?  _She'd_ been the one to cheat, not him.  He was the one to be left bleeding in the streets, wracked and beaten like the lost child who'd first arrived in New York, stripped of every ounce of strength he'd earned over the years.  "Sometimes I think you were never capable of love."

"Oh, but I am.  I can love quite well, thank you.  Just…not wisely."

"Then why, Dru?  Why did you do it?  We had…Christ, you saved me from mediocrity, you did.  I loved you with everything that I was, and you still said it wasn't enough.  Why?"  Spike didn't care any more about getting so-called answers on who was behind the hit.  At that moment, all he cared about was learning the truth about their split.

"I don't know."  It was the first unambiguous thing she'd said since he'd arrived, and looking into her eyes, there was no mistaking the belief she held in it.  "Does it matter?  You're free now.  The locks were picked and the door thrown open.  Why would you come back to your cage when you finally managed to escape?"

"Don't try telling me you did this for me.  Don't you dare do that."

"Fly away, William.  Let it all go and fly before the net closes."  Her hand returned, this time to cup his cheek.  "Too many people wish to clip your wings.  You've even managed to upset Daddy, and he'd written you off as a loss long ago.  Don't let them win by catching you."

"I won't."  The promise was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and he stepped back, cutting himself free from her touch.  His time here was done; she didn't know anything.  Not about the hit, nothing specific at least; her ramblings only indicated the general malaise she was aware of amongst the criminal community about his presence within the city again.  Not about her actions five years previous, either.  He was foolish to ever think she had the savvy to try her own affairs, even though her acumen for others, especially himself, could be so deft.

She was right about one thing, though.  She had freed him.  And he wasn't leaving here empty-handed.  As he straightened his shoulders, the agitations that had lit his flesh quietened for the first time since he stepped through the door.  He'd let the wounds she'd inflicted fester, picking at the scabs just enough so that the continual bleeding would remind him he was still alive.  He didn't need that now.  He had Buffy.  Seeing his old love like this, listening to her as she tried to draw him back into the madness that had been their lives by alternately teasing and taunting him…it finally quelled the doubts that had lingered for so many years.

He was better than this.  

"Goodbye, pet," Spike murmured, and sauntered out of the room.

*************

He didn't even speak to her when he returned from Faith's, just shot her a dirty look and headed straight for the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with such force that Lilah actually flinched in her spot on the couch.  Someone's not happy, she gloated silently.  Poor Lindsey got himself a whole big pile of nothing from little Faithy.  Though it had been what she'd been expecting, knowing he'd failed just as miserably as she had brought that extra glow to her mood.

It hadn't been a complete bust for her, though.  Her nugget of information had already been passed along, planted as she waited for it to combust and help her reel in Rook.  Not with Trick, though.  The black bastard didn't deserve to know about Buffy Summers.  Besides, someone else could use that tidbit more effectively than Trick or his boss.  Someone who'd flip his lid when he knew.

Someone who _had_ flipped his lid.

To be continued in Chapter 22: The Man Who Found Himself…


	22. The Man Who Found Himself

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Wesley has been asked by Faith to look for who hired Spike, while Spike has gone to see Dru…

*************

She was doing everything she could to keep herself distracted.  Anything to keep herself from thinking, from dwelling on the what ifs, and the maybes, and the whys.  It wasn't as if Buffy hadn't become a master at it over the past few years; avoiding those kind of questions when it came to the fire and the loss of her family had been the only way she'd been able to get out of bed most days.  Focus on the immediate problem at hand.  Plan for the long term in baby steps.  That was the way to keep it together.

But Spike was a wrinkle.  While there was no denying the thrill of being with him, at the same time it frightened Buffy, the unknowns he brought to their involvement catapulting her back into the land of doubt and second-guessing.  Though she honestly believed Drusilla Conti was a possibility they needed to address, the irony that she had sent Spike back within the clutches of the love of his life did not escape her.

What if Drusilla wanted him back?  What if this was all just a ploy to get him to New York City and under her thumb?  Would he be able to say no to that kind of offer?  Would he even want to?  And if he did go, where did that leave Buffy?

It was better not to think.  Just do, she ordered herself.  She'd stayed with Willow at the diner when the others had left, but as the afternoon stretched on and there was still no sign of Wesley, the redhead had insisted Buffy go back to the apartment to clean up before going into Heaven that night.  Part of the chanteuse had been relieved, knowing that that would be where Spike would return when he was done.  A bigger part had been gutted upon arriving there, walking in to the empty living room and feeling its hollowness echo inside her.

Don't think.  Do.

A bath first.  Something to wash away the residual tension left from the ambush.  All that time training with Mickey had finally served a purpose, even if it hadn't been to put a bullet between the eyes of whoever had wrecked her life back in California like she'd originally planned.  She had no regrets about it---lives of people she was growing to seriously care about were at stake---but it didn't mean she had to like the fact that one or more of her bullets had very potentially ended another human life.  Would she have felt the same way if it had been her true target who had died?  She wasn't actually sure.

The warm water was a welcome haven, lapping silken luxury over her breasts as she leaned against the porcelain.  Somehow, she should've expected it to elicit the memories it did, but as the ghost of Spike's touch challenged her flesh not to react, Buffy sighed in release, her eyes fluttering shut.

Those fingers, so strong, so gentle, teasing her into expectation as they danced with the terry over her back, offering promises with each fleeting graze that sent shivers of want undulating over the knobs of her spine.

Those eyes, darkened to a shade of a summer sky past sunset, no longer sapphire blue but not quite black, caressing her more assuredly than his hands as they followed paths and bends along her skin long untraveled with such tender diligence.

Unconsciously, Buffy's fingers slid up the flat of her stomach, hesitating before skimming the upper curve of her breast.  It wasn't her touch she was craving, though.  It was his.  The way Spike sparked her body to sing far more eloquently than her voice ever did, creating a rising symphony in her muscles that could only be conducted by him.

When her fingernail caught the hardened tip of her nipple, she gasped from the unexpected pleasure of it, her eyes flying open as her hand flew to grip the side of the tub.  Though her body screamed in protest, her mind was louder.  Wrong kind of doing, she thought.  This will only make it worse.

She hurried to finish her wash, economizing her strokes, studiously avoiding anywhere remotely erogenous.  Drying off was just as brisk, and when she stepped from the steamy bathroom with the towel wrapped around her body, her skin prickled in a coarsened scarlet, bearing the brunt of her scrubbing as a ward against further fantasies.

He was seated on the couch, his back to her, but the aching sight of his bleached head resting in his hands brought Buffy up short.  Her eyes flicked to the whisky bottle that sat in front of him, the full tumbler at its side, before returning to him.

"You're back," she said, stating the obvious.

He didn't move.  "It's not Dru."  Spike's voice was muffled, directed at the carpet, and it pulled her feet closer in spite of the rising dread in the pit of her stomach.

"Is that good news…or bad news?" she queried.

"Not sure."

She stood there, silent, uncertain about what to do or say.  Every instinct she had was prodding at her to go to him, to wrap him in her arms and to kiss away all of the events of the past few hours.  His body was dictating otherwise, though, closed and hard with "not welcome" written all over it.  Seconds passed with neither doing anything, and when the growing chill in the room sent a shiver through her body, Buffy made the decision for both of them.

"Don't go," Spike said as she turned toward the bedroom.

She looked back to see him gazing at her.  His eyes were bleak, the planes of his face more pronounced, but the unruly curls his fingers had created of his hair gave him the appearance of a lost little boy, desperately seeking a friendly face to help him find his way home.

"Don't go," he repeated.  This time, he edged himself over into the corner of the sofa, his invitation for her to join him there unmistakable. 

"How long have you been back?" Buffy asked, settling next to him.  She tucked her legs up underneath her, her hands knitting together listlessly in her lap.  This awkwardness was something she hadn't expected, and more than anything, she wished it would go away.

"Just a few minutes.  Didn't want to disturb you."  
"Did it go so bad you needed a drink to get over it?"  Her tone was gentle, no hint of accusation in it.  She couldn't blame him for using it as a means to cope; she'd certainly done it herself once or twice after the fire.

"Haven't touched it.  Thought I'd need to but…"

"But what?" she prompted when he fell silent again.

He took a long time to answer.  "Always did it to try and make it so the world didn't hurt so much to be in it."  Spike laughed, a dry rasping sound that made her heart bleed.  "Should probably know this now, pet, while you can still turn around and run, but underneath this rugged and manly exterior, William Rook is a bloody coward.  Didn't want to come to New York, didn't want to face Dru, and was terrified as hell last night I'd seen the last of you."

"Cowards don't face their fears.  They run.  You don't look like you're running to me."  His silence urged her closer.  "If you're mad at me about suggesting you go, you can say so.  I'm a big girl.  I can take it."

Her question took him aback, drawing his brows together in a puzzled frown.  "Why would I be mad?" he argued.  "You were right.  It had to be done."

"Then why this?"  Buffy gestured toward the bottle.  "Talk to me, Spike.  Don't make me try and guess what you're feeling right now.  I'm so jingle-brained from sitting her worrying about you, about us, that anything my head comes up with is going to come out duck soup."

"You were worried?"  For the first time, hope gleamed in the blue depths of his gaze, and his hand reached out to stroke the bend of her knee with a single finger.  "Don't be worried, luv.  If there's one thing I've gotten out of havin' my heart sliced and diced today, it's knowing who already has it."  He paused.  "If you want it, of course."

Her face softened.  "How many times am I going to have to help get your ass out of the fire before you realize I'm not going anywhere?" she teased.

The hand that had been touching her leg slid up to her waist, tugging her to him so that she was nestled into his side.  With her cheek pressed to his chest, Buffy could hear the muffled rhythm of his heartbeat, and she closed her eyes against the soothing reverberations in her ear, letting it unwind the coiled knots within her muscles.  Why was it nothing else seemed to matter when he held her like this?  The gentle caress of his fingers under the wet strands of her hair only added to her lulled sense of order, erasing away the doubts and fears with every slide of his hand.

"As hard as it was seein' Dru again," Spike said, his voice a velvety rumble along her skin, "least it helped me come to some realizations."

"About who's behind the hit?"

"No.  About…other bits.  Dru was fairly useless about anything concerning Wilkins.  Only real thing she had to say about him was that she was goin' to the funeral."

"Great," Buffy muttered.  "I get to watch her play the vamp for Angel.  Lucky me."

She was jarred from her comfortable spot when Spike pulled her around to his lap, forcing her to look at him directly.  "I don't want you to go," he said.  His face was solemn.  "When we come out on the other side of this mess, it's goin' to be you and me, right?  That's what all this talk of not leaving's about, isn't it?"

Guilt chilled her veins.  "Spike---," she started, only to be stopped by his fingers to her lips.

"No.  Listen to me."  His hand slid around to cup her cheek.  "What I got from Dru was clarity, Buffy.  She opened my eyes so that I could finally see her, see who I am when I'm around her, and to see that as much as there's a part of me that'll always love her, I don't want to go back to that."  He shrugged at the unspoken question in her eyes.  "I won't lie about it.  I wondered.  I wondered how I'd feel when I saw her.  What I'd say if she said she wanted me back.  She was my salvation back in the day.  My dark princess.  I killed for her.  I practically sold my soul just to keep her happy.  But when I got there…"  His voice broke, his gaze tearing from hers for the first time since she'd moved.

Buffy watched the shadows ripple across his face as he relived the memories, unaware she was holding her breath while she waited.  It was probably only a few seconds before he looked at her again, but to her, it seemed to last an eternity.

"Thought I was doin' just fine these past five years," he said softly.  "Turns out I was sleepwalking.  Met you and something inside me woke up.  You make me want to live again, luv.  And the thought of you spending even one minute pretending to still be with that tosser---."

"It's not really pretending, Spike," she interrupted.  "I honestly care about Angel."

The twitch in his jaw made her wish there was an easier way to say it.  "But it's not the same as you and me," he said warily.

"No, it's not.  It's nowhere near the same."  Leaning forward, she pressed a light kiss to his lips, accenting her words.  Her hands were trembling when she pulled away, and she forced herself to meet his eyes, knowing that her next words would not make him any happier.  "But I can't just disappear on him without some kind of explanation.  He's done so much for me, more than you can ever imagine, and he deserves better than that."

"Buffy---."

"It's your turn to listen to me now.  Please.  I know you don't like him, and that's just jake.  But Angel got me out of more than one mess when I was out in California, and he got me going here, and I can't just forget about all that.  You can't ask me to."

Spike was still, and every moment he sat there mute, his dark gaze locked on hers, she felt her stomach plummet further, unease that she'd pushed him too far making her skin crawl.  "S'pose you goin' missing so soon after the hit would like a mite suspicious," he finally said slowly.  Though her face lit up at his acceptance, his remained somber.  "But after…when we've fingered whoever it is behind it all…you're coming back to California with me, right?  I know it's not exactly your favorite place, what with the bad memories and all, but if you give me half a chance, I'll do everything in my power to try and give you new ones.  Ones that'll make you smile instead of cry.  You have my word on that, pet."

Tears stung the corner of her eyes, and Buffy buried her face in the curve of his neck as she hugged him tight, unwilling to let him see how deeply his words had gotten to her.  "California's always been my home," she murmured, keeping her voice steady.  "There's so much you don't know about what happened there."

Strong hands reached up to begin stroking her damp hair.  "I'm not askin' you to tell me anything.  You do know that, don't you?"

"I know.  But I will.  I promise."

"So…is that a yes or a no?"

Her lips kissed the hollow below his ear.  "I'd go to Timbuktu if that's where you wanted to go, Spike," she whispered.  "Home is wherever you are."

*************

Willow smiled as Mickey approached her table, the coffee pot in his meaty hand.  "You want another cup of joe?" he asked.

She shook her head, holding her hand over her empty cup.  "Any more and I'm going to have to take up residence in your bathroom, I think," she joked.

"What about something to eat?  I've got some nice apple pie."

Another shake.  "I'm good.  Really.  I'm sure he'll be here any minute."  She kept her smile plastered across her face even as he walked away, but it was a struggle, her heart heavy as her eyes darted to the front door of the diner for the millionth time since Buffy had gone.  Three hours since they'd left Wesley at Heaven, and while she didn't have any doubts that he would eventually show with her things, the longer he took the more worried she became.  Could something have happened to him? she wondered.  Maybe the clean-up didn't turn out so clean after all.

Spike had told her about his offer to Wesley, and no matter how hard she tried, Willow's thoughts kept going back to it.  Thinking about what was going to happen between them after all this was over had been filed away for later consideration, but maybe Spike's proposal had made Wesley decide getting involved with her was a bad idea.  Her initial reaction had been excitement---all of them, working together, like one big happy family.  Spike and Buffy, her and Wesley, Giles looking out for all of them.  It could be good.

If Wesley ever decided to show up, that is.

When Mickey appeared at her elbow again, her smile was automatic, curling her lips but nowhere near her eyes.  "Really, I'm fine," she started, only to feel it fade when she noticed his hands were empty.

"You've got a visitor out back," he said.  "Someone with a whole bunch of luggage."

She was out of the booth and halfway to the kitchen door before he was finished speaking, the weight that had been slumping her shoulders gone.  Past the stoves, and through the storeroom, blinking once against the darkness to see the back door of the diner wide open, outlining Wesley's body in black as he stood there waiting.  For her.

She stopped right in front of him, but as his mouth canted into a small smile, her hand shot out and slapped at his arm.  "Where the hell have you been?" she demanded.  "Do you have any idea how much worrying I've done waiting for you?  We're talking enough to power all of Manhattan.  If it could be converted into electricity, of course."

Her reaction only made him smile wider, and before she could say anything else, Wesley was cupping her face in his hands and lowering his mouth to hers.

The kiss took her by surprise, the tiny mewl escaping her throat as his lips powered over hers, strong and forceful and more demanding than any other kiss they'd shared.  A tremor of excitement ruffled through her body, but before Willow could drown herself in it, it was over, and he had straightened to look down at her with a pleased grin.

"What was that for?" she said breathlessly.

"For being so absolutely adorable," he replied.  "And because in about ten seconds when I tell you what held me, I'll wager that you'll be too keyed up for me to get another chance to do that."

"What happened?"

He didn't wait.  "I think I've learned of someone who can help us find out who hired Spike."

Her eyes went as wide as saucers.  "Who?"

"Faith."  The words came tumbling out, and in his enthusiasm to share what had happened, he never even noticed the growing line between Willow's brows.  "She showed up at Heaven as I was leaving.  She asked for my help in nailing who's responsible for Mr. Wilkins' death, but I'm fairly certain she knows who it is and is afraid to tell me.  I'm sure if we exerted a little pressure…"  He paused when she stepped away from him, his glee diminishing at her sobriety.  "What's wrong?  I thought you'd be thrilled about this."

"Why would Faith come to you for help?"  Her words were cautious, carefully chosen as her gaze remained riveted on his face.  When the veil fell over his eyes, darkening the blue even behind his glasses, she swallowed.  Something was going on here that she didn't know about, and the possibility that it could mean she was being played for a sap made her stomach lurch in revolt.

"Because she saw my loyalty to the family," he replied.  "She thinks someone of my…intelligence could do what the police are refusing to."

"How do you know she's not trying to set you up?  Maybe she's the one who hired Spike."

Wesley shook his head.  "Absolutely not.  She's a wreck, Willow.  She loved Mr. Wilkins.  There's no way she has anything to do with the hit."

"And you believe her.  Just like that."  Her jealousy surprised her, but she couldn't help herself when she pulled even further away from his touch.  She'd spent all her life being overshadowed by beautiful women, watching as men she cared about chose others over her.

"Yes."  He seemed oblivious to the truth of her discomfort, and she visibly cringed at his next words.  "She's a lot smarter than any of us gave her credit for.  Really, it's remarkable.  I think if she wasn't so scared, she'd be after who hired Spike herself."

So, bye-bye to my intelligence advantage, Willow thought with more than an ounce of sadness.  Look at how passionate he is talking about her.  How did I ever think that someone like him would be interested in someone like me?

"Why aren't you more excited?  This is a wonderful break for us."

"Us?  _Is_ there an us?  It's not a you and Faith?"  She grimaced as the words shot out of her mouth.  Thinking it was one thing; saying it out loud was entirely different.  And really, really embarrassing.

He watched her for a moment before turning back toward the alley.  For the first time, Willow saw the car parked near the door.  "I've booked a room for us," he said, ignoring her outburst as he strode toward the driver's seat.  "It's a trifle nicer than your previous hotel.  I think you'll be pleased."

"Wait."  Hesitantly, she ventured into the sunshine.  "I'm confused here.  Aren't you listening to me?  Because my ears seemed to be working better than my brain at the moment, and I could've sworn I just put my foot into it two seconds ago and you didn't even blink."

"I heard you."  Pulling open the door, Wesley gestured toward the trunk.  "Would you mind terribly unpacking my things as well when you're doing yours?  I'm running so late, I'm not sure I'll have the opportunity before I go into Heaven."

"OK.  Time out."  She planted her feet, folding her arms across her chest, while she waited for him to look up at her again.  "What's going on?  You show up, late, in a car you didn't have this morning, after having had some mysterious assignation with the Mayor's mistress, who happens to be smart _and_ beautiful, and you're hearing me but I'm not getting any responses because you're too worried about your suits getting wrinkled since you'll probably be late for work tonight."  She paused, breathless.  "Do I get any kind of answers?  Or am I just supposed to go along for the ride?"  When he smiled, it was all she could do not to stamp her foot in protest.  "And stop laughing at me!"

"Right."  Wesley affected a frown, though his eyes still danced in mirth.  "Is that better?"

"It'll do."

"So.  You want answers.  Well, first of all, the car is on loan.  I called in a favor and borrowed it.  On the off-chance we get fingered again, I'm much more comfortable relying on my own driving to lose a tail than a cabbie who barely speaks English."  He stepped around the front of the vehicle, leaving his door open, to approach her slowly.  "Secondly, I thought we'd established this morning that I'm at as much risk currently as any of you, so in keeping with that and our…intimacy last night, I assumed that you wouldn't mind if you and I shared a hotel for the time being."

He had come to a stop right in front of her, his proximity forcing her to tilt her head up to look at him.  His frown was gone, the angles of his face softened as he regarded her intently.  The deep scent of his cologne struck her senses, and the urge to bury her face in his chest almost overwhelmed the redhead.  Supposed to be mad, she reminded herself.  Not supposed to think about nice smells, and how strong he is, and how much I really like his stubble, especially when it scrapes against my…OK, stopping now.  Supposed to be mad.

"What about…Faith?" she asked instead, her voice faint.

"Ah, Faith.  Yes.  Well, while I can hardly deny that I'm late because of taking a few moments to speak with her, and while she's certainly a very attractive young girl with more intelligence than I previously gave her credit for…"  His index finger tapped lightly against the tip of her nose.  "…she's not you, now is she?"

"And that's…good?"

"That's very good."  Wes smiled, but this time, it was tipped not in humor, but in gentleness.  "My turn for a question now," he said.  "This…jealousy that seems to currently have you in its thrall.  Is this an ongoing issue for you?  Because I hear that the women in California are quite attractive.  If I'm going to have to limit my contacts with only the male half of the species, I should probably know that now so we don't have to worry about any unwelcome recurrences of this condition."

It took her a moment to register completely what exactly he said, but when it did, Willow's jaw dropped.  "Spike didn't tell me you said yes," she stammered.

"Because I didn't.  I told him I'd think about it."

"And you've done that?  Thought about it, I mean."

"It actually didn't require much thought at all, surprisingly enough."

"And you're jake with the idea of moving to California when this is over?"

"Will you be there?"

"Of course."

"Then, whither thou goest…"  Wesley laughed out loud when she suddenly flung her arms around his neck, wrapping his own around her waist to hold her tight against him.  "Is it safe to presume you're happy about my decision?"

"Presume away."  Silly Willow, she thought happily, all thoughts of sultry brunettes wearing far too much lipstick vanishing in the wake of his announcement.  You've been spending far too much time with Spike and Giles.  All their doomsaying has rubbed off on you.  Time to sit back and enjoy what you've got for a change, instead of looking for ways for it to go bad.

*************

When the phone rang, Xander was the one who answered it.  He didn't even look away from the floorplan he was studying when he passed it over to Giles.  "It's for you," he said.

"Who is it?"

"Some dame named Olivia."

Frowning, he took the receiver and turned his back on the desk.  "Hello?"

She didn't even bother with any pleasantries.  "Are you _that_ bored you had to send me on a wild goose chase just to keep yourself entertained, Ripper?" she asked.  Annoyance dripped from every word, and his grip tightened around the phone.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about that background check you asked me to do.  Or have you forgotten about it already?"

He glanced back at Xander, but noted that the young man was still absorbed by the layout of the hotel before him.  "I wasn't expecting to hear from you about that so quickly," he said into the phone, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

"You thought it would take me longer to track down a dead man?" she commented sarcastically.  "Thanks ever so much for your vote of confidence in my abilities."

Every muscle froze.  "What…was that?" he said.  He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but this was far from anything he could've imagined.

"Your man.  Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.  Officially?  One dead fed."

She continued to prattle on with the details she'd uncovered, but Giles' mind was already elsewhere.  They'd all forgotten about that detail in the furor of the hit's aftermath, but now that it was back, he was shocked at how much now made sense.  All just a ruse in order to get further into the family.  And they'd all fallen for his act, inviting him into their circle, telling him their secrets.  Now, he knew everything there was to know about the hit and those who were involved in it.

When Spike found out the truth, Wesley was going to be dead for real this time.

If Willow didn't beat him to the punch.

*************

Angel's knuckles were white where they gripped the back of the chair, his head bent as he had to force himself not to lift the piece of furniture and send it hurtling against the wall.  "You're lying to me," he growled, not even looking up to appreciate the slim legs of the woman standing before him.

"I wish I was," Lilah replied.  "But I'm afraid my sources are irrefutable on this."

"There's no way Buffy's gotten herself mixed up in this," he repeated.  "Not _my_ Buffy.  I don't believe it."

"Believe what you like."  Her graceful hands closed the lid of her briefcase, the snap of the catches too loud in the expensively furnished living room of the Wilkins' penthouse.  "I just thought you'd want to know."  She didn't look back when she strolled out of the apartment, but when the door closed behind her, Angel lost what little control he had and smashed his fist into the desk, wishing momentarily that it was her face he could drive it into.

Lying bitch, he thought.  Trying to tell me Buffy's hooked up with Rook.  Like she even knows how to handle a gun or any other kind of weapon.  Stupid girl never even figured out how the fire got started at the gallery, for fuck's sake.  Only thing she's ever been good at is singing and looking like an angel.  How in hell could she get her head around something as crazy as a shootout?

But the thing of it was…he couldn't figure out why the lawyer would lie to him about it.  Not that he knew this one from Adam, but she'd come with all the right passwords so there was no way he could deny her entrance.  And she was convinced Buffy'd been spotted with William Rook just that afternoon.

She wouldn't do that to me, he raged silently.  Not after everything.  Not after what I've done for her.  I fucking _made_ her.  No way can she stab me in the back with this now.

Still…a guy couldn't be too careful.  He hadn't gotten this far by being stupid.  He'd just have to keep an eye on her himself.

Just to be sure.

And if things got out of hand…it wasn't like he didn't have any experience in making men in Buffy's life disappear.  He'd done it before; he'd just do it again.  Rook would be out of the picture and Angel would come out smelling like a rose.

Just like he always did.

To be continued in Chapter 23:  Three Black Eyes…


	23. Three Black Eyes

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Lilah has gone to Angel to tell him about Buffy's involvement with Spike, Giles has learned of Wesley being a federal agent, and both couples---Buffy and Spike, Willow and Wesley---are ready to move on to California after getting the issue of who hired the hit sorted…

*************

"Nobody else is on the floor with them---."

"Why's that?"

"Dunno.  Just know they're all by their lonesome there.  It makes it easier for us, though."

"Easy is good.  I like easy."

"Easy just gets us up there.  We still have to get the dame out of the suite so we can get to McDonald."

From the chair he was lounging on in the adjoining room, Spike piped up, "Don't worry about her.  I've got her all sorted."

Xander and Willow both looked up from the hotel floorplans that were laid out on top of the dining room table.  "Do _we_ get to hear this grand scheme of things?" she quizzed.

"No big mystery," Spike said with a shrug.  He shifted his weight, the leg he had thrown over the arm of the plush seat bouncing in agitation.  Between his fingers, he rolled an unlit cigarette, the energy he was being forced to contain leaking out in the tiniest of gestures.  Sitting around talking about getting their hands on the lawyer was the last thing he wanted to be doing at the moment.  Of course, what he wanted to be doing was impossible since Buffy had already left for Heaven…"Just goin' to offer her what she's tryin' to get.  Me."

Two sets of eyes widened.  "You're pulling my leg here, right?" Xander said.  "No way are you getting anywhere near this site.  There'll be coppers crawling all over the joint---."

"No, there won't."  His wolfish grin, though unexpected, was infectious, and his friends found themselves matching it in spite of themselves.  "They're goin' to be too busy off at the funeral lookin' around for me because Red here's goin' to tip 'em off that I'm goin' to show my face there."

"Ooo, I like that," Willow chirped.

"Well, I don't," Xander countered.  "And neither will Giles."

"Well, Ripper's not here to vote on it, now is he?  All in favor?"  Spike held up his hand, his blue eyes dancing when the redhead put her own up as well.  "Two to one," he said, lowering it again.  "Looks like snatching him during the funeral wins."

"Where _is_ Giles?" Willow asked as she turned back to face the young man at her side.  "Did he tell you how long he was going to be?"

Xander shook his head.  "Just that he had an errand to run and that he'd get here as soon as he could."

"It's his own fault then if he pokes his mug in and doesn't like the plan," Spike said casually.  He stuck the cigarette between his lips and rose from the chair, pulling his lighter from his trousers pocket as he sauntered over to the window.  "What could be so bloody important to miss out on his favorite part of our process?"

*************

From his vantage point across the street, Giles saw the familiar dark head in the car that passed, pulling into the alley that ran alongside the club.  Since when did he have a car? the Englishman mused, but quickly dismissed the query, rising from his seat as he dropped a couple bills onto the table.  It didn't matter.  In fact, it made it easier.  He wouldn't have to try and explain anything to a taxi driver when he dragged Wesley out of the alley.

Traffic was on his side, allowing him clear passage across the road without having to wait, and he gave his side one last pat before following the car's route.  Gun still in place.  Not that he really wanted to use it, especially with the night starting to come to life around him, pedestrians beginning to find their paths along the walk.  If circumstances dictated it, though, Giles was more than prepared to use whatever force was necessary.  There was absolutely no way he would allow an undercover federal agent to destroy the lives of people he cared about.

He heard Wesley before he saw him, whistling as if he didn't have a care in the world.  Bile rose in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it back as he affected his most casual face, hurrying forward to catch him before he actually entered the club.  Backstabbing, seducing pillock, he silently raged.  How dare he think he can so cavalierly do such things to Spike and Willow?  Garner their trust and then destroy them without even blinking an eye?  He took a deep breath.  Must calm down.  Can't let him see just how furious about this I actually am.  At least, not yet.

"Wesley!" Giles called out as he stepped around the car.

The other man stopped by the back entrance of the club, his face brightening for a moment when he saw who was approaching.  Quickly, though, he frowned as he glanced at the doorway, and hurried forward to intercept him from getting nearer.

"It's rather risky for you to be showing up around here, don't you think?" Wesley commented as they faced each other.  "Not that I think Angel has connected yours and Xander's presence here the other night with the Mayor's death, but really, don't you think you should exercise just a tad more caution?"

In his pockets, Giles' hands balled into fists as he fought to control his anger.  "It couldn't be avoided," he said tightly.  "I needed to see you."

"You could've called."

"I didn't have time."

Small lines appeared between Wes' brows as he frowned.  "It's not Willow, is it?  I just left her with Spike at the hotel.  She was fine---."

"It's not Willow."  How he wanted to wipe the false concern from the bastard's face, pretending to care about what happened to the sensitive redhead.  His face remained neutral, though, as flints of steel flashed in his eyes.  "It's about you, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce."

The sudden formality forced Wesley back a step as his gaze narrowed in assessment.  Giles could see the thoughts working behind the spectacles, but before any sort of connection could be made, he took the initiative, his fist whipping out and crashing into the other man's face.

Wesley went reeling back against the brick, his forehead scraping against the serrated edges, but before he could regain his balance, Giles grabbed him by the lapels, slamming him into the wall.

"Were you laughing when you convinced her you were one of the 'good guys?" he growled, his forearm pressing into Wes' neck.  "Did it amuse you to see her believe you so implicitly?"

"What are you…talking about?" Wes gasped.

"Don't play me for one of your fools.  I know who you are.  Who you _really_ are."

Their eyes locked, bodies tense.  For a long moment, the only sounds in the alley were the metallic cadences of the traffic filtering in from the street, the ragged rasp of the pinned man's breath.  Then, his lids fluttered shut, his lips thinning into a tight line as he sagged against the brick.  "It's not what you think," he murmured.

"Oh?"  Giles feigned surprise, but his tone was glacial.  "So you're _not_ a federal agent?"

When Wesley opened his eyes, a drop of blood slid along the curve of his brow, arcing along the outer edge to catch in his lower lashes.  "I'm not a threat to you."  His voice was low and steady, resolve steeling his words.

"That's why you lied to us."

"I never lied.  I had every intention of telling---."  He was silenced when Giles' fist shot out again, not even wincing as he closed his eyes again to the pain.

"You have no idea just what you've done, do you," Giles said.  The skin had split on his knuckles, but he was oblivious to the discomfort as his lividity surged within his muscles.  It was taking every ounce of his control not to beat the man to a bloody pulp, the spectre of her smile as it would disappear in the wake of the truth fuelling his fury.  "Willow _trusted _you.  She deserves better than some half-assed, two-faced Munchausen whose heart seems to reside between his legs to play with her emotions by offering her half-truths and idle promises.  Lucky for her, she has friends who care about her wellbeing.  Friends who will be more than happy to make you answer for what you've done to her."

A long pause.  Then, a small snort from the dark-haired man.  "And here I thought your primary concern was Spike," Wesley said quietly.  "Or is the fact that I've been in a position for over thirty-six hours to expose him and see him behind bars for his plethora of crimes and _haven't_, now secondary to the fact that I truly care for Willow?"

"If you expect me to believe that you have no intention of fingering Spike, you're even more foolish than I thought."

"And you're ignoring my question."

With his forearm firmly in place against Wesley's larynx, Giles reached inside his jacket and extracted his gun, training it on his captive.  "Spike and Willow are my family," he said.  "I refuse to see either of them get hurt."

"So you'll commit murder in order to protect them."

"If that's what it takes."

"It's not."  He held himself stiffly as Giles stepped back.  "You don't have to do this.  I want the same thing you do.  To see the man responsible for the Mayor's death held accountable for his actions."

"By my estimation, your employers would consider that man to be Spike."  When Wesley began to reach into his coat pocket, Giles cocked the revolver, levelling the muzzle at the other man's head.  "I suggest you stop moving.  Right now."

The brunette froze.  "My employers believe I'm dead," Wes said.  Only his eyes moved as his gaze followed every infinitesimal movement of the gun aimed at him.  "And _my_ estimation considers the responsible party the one who blackmailed a man into returning to a life of crime just so that he could protect his friends.  The same man I was prepared to offer my support to this very night, in fact.  Just ask Willow."

The slight pause in his response was the only indication that Wesley's words had hit a nerve.  "As much as I respect her," he said, "I also know how deeply she needs to believe in people.  So my apologies if your attempts to capitalize on her innate goodness won't work to sway me."

"Then perhaps you should trust Spike's judgment.  He proffered a rather interesting bargain.  It would seem that _he_ trusts me to be on his side."

"Because he doesn't know you're a fed."

"So let's tell him.  Let him make the call."  Though he still wasn't moving, Wesley's words were coming quicker now, Giles' weakening resolve in the face of his arguments enough impetus for him to try.  "You have the gun.  You have the power.  Let me drive us back to my hotel, and we'll let Spike be the one to judge whether I'm to be trusted or not."

He could kill him.  He knew he had it in him to do so.  Yet, standing in the darkening alley, with Wesley's crystal blue gaze so steady on his, listening to his rationale, Giles questioned for the first time since discovering the truth from Olivia whether it was really his place to do so.  Not that he trusted Willow's assessment.  He wasn't blind.  It was apparent she was head over heels, and Giles was not going to be put into a position to hold faith in such a distorted opinion.

On the other hand, he didn't dare fool himself into believing that his own opinion might not be a trifle warped as well.

He lost nothing by leaving the decision up to Spike.  Of course, he would have to witness the devastation hearing the truth was going to wreak on Willow, but she was young and surely this was just a crush; it would only be a matter of time before she understood how she'd been played.  Taken advantage of, really.  Used as a pawn in Wesley's game to get closer.

Except…he hadn't put himself into her path.  It had been the other way around.  And it _had_ been almost two days since Wesley had learned enough to turn Spike in to the authorities.

Giles gave his head a quick shake.  Let Spike decide.  That was the answer.  Don't think about the other unless he had to.

Taking a step away, he angled his body so that his gun remained trained on Wesley while his body faced the front of the car.  "I would suggest you not try anything," he said calmly.  "I don't plan on putting my piece away."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Wesley said.  Carefully, he stepped away from the wall, reaching into his pocket to extract his car keys.  As he rounded the front of the vehicle on the way to the driver's seat, he added, "I'm sorry it came to this."

"So am I," Giles muttered once the other man was out of earshot.  He walked toward his side of the car.  "So am I."

*************

From the shadows of the backstage area, Angel watched as Buffy hurried from her dressing room, her head tilted as she fumbled with the back of her earring.  Black.  She'd chosen to wear black.  Fitting, considering everyone was in mourning.  Except it was a slim-fitting satin number that outlined her curves rather than hid them.  Funny how she still managed to look provocative when he knew she wasn't even trying.

Except…not funny at all.

His muscles growled in want as his hooded eyes swept along in the path of her wake, lingering on the softly swishing curtains as she stepped through them long after she was gone.  He'd love to be out there right now seeing the show, but with Lilah's words still ringing in his ears, Angel knew that he had to take what time he could steal to try and disprove them.  He had to.  The notion of his Buffy entangled with the likes of Rook brought back too many memories of California, voices that weren't his trying to tell her what was good for her and what wasn't.  Trying to distract her from the things he thought were important.

Her singing.

Her career.

Angel.

He waited until he saw Jonathan disappear into Wesley's office, briefly wondering what could've possibly made the Englishman late for work, before slipping out of the shadows and climbing the metal stairs.  He would've preferred to take them two or three at a time, such was his haste to get there.  But an artificially enforced patience kept his pace measured, his step sure, until he was standing outside her dressing room and letting himself into the dark room.

First glances showed nothing amiss.  Her perfume still hung in the air, and closing his eyes, Angel inhaled deeply, losing himself in the scent of his Aphrodite as he lost the cadence of her voice by shutting the door behind him.  It smelled like her, only her, but when his lids opened again, the first thing he noticed was the small wash of dead flower petals that had fallen to the side of her dressing table.

When was the last time I sent her flowers? he wondered as he crouched to pick up a faded bloom.  Not recently, been too distracted.  The fact that his fingers now curled around dead daisies didn't escape him, either, and Angel's brow was drawn in a thunderous frown as he straightened.

Could be from a fan.  A fan who knows what her favorite flower is.  Possible, if not exactly probable.

Her make-up looked like it always did, haphazardly scattered across the tabletop, but it was the heavy lines of her bag propped against the mirror that he noticed next.  He knew as soon as he picked it up what he was going to find inside; he'd held too many over the years not to recognize its weight when he felt it.  But as Angel pulled out the small revolver that she had tucked inside her purse, checking the chambers and noting the absence of all but one of the bullets, ice settled around his heart.

Since when did she carry a piece?  Since when did she even know how to use a peashooter like this?

He'd worked so hard to try and keep her safe from the dirtier side of his life, and yeah, so maybe California had been extreme but it hadn't been meant to instigate the type of behavior where she felt it necessary to carry a loaded weapon.  Though he knew that one of her primary reasons to come out to New York in the first place was so that she could seek out the source of all the violence that had curled around her life, Angel had hoped that the passage of time---and the fact that Buffy had stopped talking about those years---had meant she'd finally let it go.  Obviously, she hadn't though.

Had she hooked up with Rook because of his ties with both California and the Big Apple?  Had she never stopped searching for the answers she wanted?

None of it was making Angel feeling any better about what the Morgan bitch had had to say.  Anger, and frustration, and hate lay waste to the vestiges of his mood, and violently, he tossed the purse back onto the table, ignoring the small crack the force of it made in her mirror.  He had to get out of here before he did something he regretted.  It wouldn't do if Buffy was the one around when his rein over his control burst; as mad as he was at her, he'd never forgive himself if he ever actually hurt her.

Time to get out.  Time for a little R&R.

Time to get a little Faith.

*************

She caught up to him just as he was leaving the building, but when Riley turned around to face her, Kate was startled into silence when she saw the bruise along the corner of his eye.  "What happened to you?" she asked when her tongue decided to start working again.

He shrugged.  "Just a collar resisting arrest," he explained.  "We got a tip we thought was going to lead us to Rook, but no cigar.  Just a drifter in yet another flophouse."

"So you're still not getting anywhere in finding him?"

"If by anywhere, you mean nowhere, then…yeah.  What about you?  Did you get a chance to swing by Faith's like I asked?"

Kate frowned.  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," she said slowly.  "Don't get me wrong here but…what in hell did you guys do to her to make her lawyer up?"

He seemed genuinely surprised by her question.  "What's that?"

"Faith.  She's got herself a lawyer, a Lindsey McDonald, who by the looks of it, knows what he's doing.  I'd lay odds he's not a family man, either.  He didn't look local."

"That doesn't mean anything.  I'm not exactly born and bred, but that doesn't mean I don't take working in this city serious."

"Well, whoever he is, he wouldn't let me within five feet of Faith, so I got dust on why she might've given you so much trouble when you questioned her.  If you're that serious about it, you might need to bring her in now because I just don't see her mouthpiece inviting you over for tea any time soon."

With a grimace, Riley scratched at his head.  "Thanks anyway," he said.  "I appreciate you going to the effort."  He turned to walk away, and then stopped.  "This lawyer…could you just write down what you remember about him and put it on my desk?  I'll give him a check when I get in, in the morning."

"Sure.  Not a problem."  She watched him push his way out of the precinct building, and frowned.  Not that Finn wasn't an excellent cop, but she didn't understand his plan of attack on this one.  Records showed that Rook had been one of Conti's guns back in the day; why wasn't he going down that road in trying to find him?  Unless he honestly believed that Faith had answers she wasn't sharing.  For some reason, Officer Finn struck her as the bulldog type---get a bone between his teeth and refuse to let it go, no matter what the cost.  Hopefully, that wouldn't cost him the entire investigation.

*************

She felt like hell, and if she took the time to bother with looking in a mirror, Faith was pretty sure she'd see that she looked like hell, too.  Even Wesley had commented on her appearance, and if there was one thing she knew about the club manager, it was that grace and tact were two things he had in abundance.

A long, hot bath was probably in order, but every muscle in her body was screaming for sleep, desperate to climb between her sheets and bury herself in the remnants of Richard's scent that still clung there in ghostly motes.  She was glad the cops weren't insisting on kicking her out, considering it was a crime scene.  The last thing she wanted right now was to be surrounded by the unfamiliar.  A stiff shot and maybe a spritz of Richard's cologne on the pillows, just to freshen up the idea that he had been there.  Sometimes, a little smell could go a long way.

She almost ignored the knock when it came to the door, the silky slip sliding over her hips.  It was only the possibility that maybe it was Wesley, come to maybe talk about their little meeting or to tell her that he knew what she'd been talking about and was doing the right thing, that drove her feet to answer it.

Faith's stomach dropped as soon as she saw the gleam in his eyes, but pushing the door closed back on Angel was impossible.  His hand shot out, catching the edge, and he shoved against it, the wood parting a glancing blow along the side of her head as she tried to clear its passage.  "Whaddaya want?" she demanded irritably, retreating to the bar.  She needed that shot _now_.

He was fast all over tonight, and his fingers curled into her hair before she'd even realized he'd moved, jerking her to a halt before she could reach the liquor.  "That kisser's going to get you into trouble, you keep talking like that to me," he growled as he used his grip to wrench her head to the side, exposing the curve of her neck so that he could bury his face in it.

She winced as he bit against her jugular.  "You're in, aren't you?" she said as coldly as she could manage.  "And since when do you care about what comes out of my mouth?  I thought the only thing you were interested in was what went in it."

His frustrated snarl wasn't what she was expecting, but as he pulled her tight against him, there was no mistaking the hard line of his erection pressed into the curve of her ass.  "Don't talk," Angel muttered as the hand at her front reached up to viciously pinch her nipple through her nightgown.

"Or what?" she challenged.  If she hadn't been so tired, maybe she would've remembered her lessons from the previous night, the stinging slap of his hand on her face.  Maybe she would've kept her yap shut because daring Angel Wilkins?  Not the smartest thing for someone to do.

The blow to the side of her head made stars dance behind her eyes, and Faith twisted against his heavily muscled arms as she tried to escape his clutch.  "Told you not to talk," Angel repeated.  She looked up just in time to see his fist descend again, and ducked her head so that it hit her temple instead of her mouth.

More stars.  And this time, she was on the floor.

He was on her in a second, rough hands tearing at her slip, exposing her skin to air that suddenly seemed too stifling, too cloying with memories.  Turning her head to the side, Faith squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the tears that welled there to stay inside, and deliberately shifted her thoughts to anywhere but her current situation.

Just like the old days, she thought as somewhere deep inside she felt him enter her.  Turn off the head, let the body do its job.  Disappear for the time the john wants what he wants.  Vanish for minutes at a time and pray you've got the moxie to come back when he's done.

The pounding of his flesh into hers burned the carpet against her bottom.  God, Wes, she thought, you better fucking use that brain of yours fast because I don't know how long I can live like this.  Not this time.  Just…do what it takes to get me out of here…

*************

He hadn't felt this relaxed since they'd hit the city, Spike decided, and smiled as he watched Red and Harris finalize the last of the plans at the dining room table.  In spite of still not having the answers he needed, the pieces were all there for him; he just needed the time to put them all together.  It didn't seem as rushed to him anymore, not with such a team of friends around to help him with it.  And with Buffy at his side, knowing she'd be coming back to California with him, anything seemed possible.

When the knock came, Red was the one to break from what she was doing to go and answer it, moving through the hotel suite as if it was her actual home.  All because of that Wesley, Spike mused.  He'd practically laughed himself silly watching her put away the manager's suits, like it was a job she'd done for years.  He'd never seen her so happy, and thinking that it was all because he'd taken a risk with accepting the job---not that he'd had much choice in the end run, not with the blackmail and all---gave Spike a small sense of satisfaction.  He just wanted her to enjoy life, like she deserved to.  It was about time it happened.

The sight of the two men on the other side of the door was all that was necessary to pull the blond to his feet, his blood chilled as his gaze swept over them.  Except for looking pissed as hell, Ripper looked just like Ripper---too stiff, too tense, eyes blazing behind his glasses.  It was Wesley standing in front of him that gave him pause.

His clothes were in disarray, his collar stained in hardening scarlet from the blood that had evidently dripped down his face.  A nasty scrape coarsened his brow, while blue and purple mottling around his left eye and cheekbone promised a beauty of a bruise come morning.

"What happened?" Red said as she reached forward to try and draw Wesley into the room.

Everyone noticed when the brunette sidestepped her touch, his eyes ducking in almost embarrassment.  Immediately, Spike's hackles went up, and his lids narrowed as he stepped closer to the entryway.

"Tell them," Giles ordered.  For the first time, the blond saw the gun almost hidden in the small of Wesley's back, the unmistakable pressure it was exerting against his shirt.

"I'm so sorry," Wes said, and his gaze lifted to lock on the redhead before him.  "This isn't how I wanted you to find out."

"Find out…what?"  She was pale, all the color drained from her skin, making her hair flame even brighter than normal.

"Who I…what I do…did…"  He was stumbling over his words, and an increasingly frustrated Spike closed the gap between them.

"Spit it out," he ordered.

With a definitive swallow, Wesley straightened, lifting his chin.  "I'm a federal agent," he said calmly.  "Assigned to expose Richard Wilkins' felonious activities and to see that he got behind bars for them."

To be continued in Chapter 24: The Shadow of a Doubt…


	24. The Shadow of a Doubt

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Angel is having suspicions about Buffy's involvement with Spike and gone to Faith's to take out his frustrations elsewhere, while Giles has confronted Wesley about being a federal agent, dragging him down to face Spike and Willow…

*************

She astonished him by practically begging Spike for a few minutes of privacy first, and, by the look on the other Englishmen's faces, surprised them as well.

"You sure about that, Red?" he asked.  Even though his hands were hidden, tucked into his armpits, Wesley knew Spike had them balled into fists, the only reason they weren't worsening the injuries the agent already sported standing between them.

Her eyes were bright in entreaty.  "He won't hurt me," Willow said, though her tone more than evinced that the damage had already been done.

"He could try using you as a hostage," Giles said from his position behind Wesley.

"He won't," she repeated.  "We'll be in the kitchen, and you guys will be just on the other side of the door.  He may be a big, fat liar, but he's not stupid.  He knows if he pulls anything, he's a dead man."

The air was thick while everyone waited for Spike's response.  Though he was grateful he might get the opportunity to explain himself to Willow, perhaps even to convince her of his legitimacy, Wesley held no false hopes that Rook's approval would be as forthcoming.  For the first time, he believed he was witnessing the raw danger of the ex-hitman that had inspired both awe and fear in those who'd encountered him.  Was this the face the Mayor saw as he died? Wes mused.

Eyes blazing midnight, stoked from the fury within his lean frame.

Muscles so tense they twitched in direct remonstration to the vigor he must've been exerting over his self-control.

"Five minutes," he finally said.  His gaze was locked on Wesley's.  "That's all you get.  Then, it'll be my turn to…talk."  With the untamed grace of a cat taunting its prey, he stretched his neck to the side, its deliberate cracking audible to all.

Willow rolled her eyes, grabbing Wes' forearm to drag him to the other room.  "Just whip it out, why don't you," she muttered as she disappeared into the kitchen.

As soon as they were alone, she dropped her hand as if burned, and turned her back on him as she went straight to the sink.  He watched in mute query, his head a whirlwind of opening lines, each tossed aside as not nearly good enough, and he waited patiently when she returned to stand before him with a wet cloth in her hand.

"Thank you," he murmured, as she daubed at the dried blood on his brow.  "Though I hardly understand why you're doing this."

"You're hurt," she said as if that was all the explanation he needed.  "Giles really did a number on your face."  Though she wouldn't meet his eyes, he caught her small frown when the cloth hesitated at the bruise along his cheekbone.  "Where are your glasses?" she asked.  Her voice had lowered in concern, and Wesley had to consciously stifle the thrill of emotion that fluttered in his gut at the sound.

"In my pocket," he replied, matching her volume.  "Broken."

Willow met his gaze then, the lines deepening.  "He hit you while you were wearing them?  He could've gotten glass in your eye."

He smiled, his lips compressed into a thin, tight curve.  "Somehow, I don't think my safety was his top priority at the time."

Silence again, and another of his five respite minutes ticked by.

"At least I know why you were able to off that bruno at Heaven with only your pen," she finally said.  She stepped away, dropping the cloth into the small sink, and pressed herself into the hard edge of the counter in a vain attempt to put even more distance between them.  "The truth kind of makes you less mystique guy and more stab me in the back guy."

"I planned on telling you---."

"When?  When you handed us over to the cops for the hit on the Mayor?"

"That was never going to happen."

"The feds then.  Even better."

Though her sarcasm was thick, there was no mistaking the sheen over the emerald of her eyes, her stiff posture as she struggled to maintain her composure.  Against his better instincts, Wesley stepped forward and cupped her cheek.  "I'm so sorry," he murmured.  "This wasn't how I wished you to find out."

Willow turned into his touch for a fraction too long before wrenching away.  "Don't," she bit out, and this time, the tear spilled down her face.  "You don't get to be sorry.  Do you have any idea how much you've put me behind the eight ball here?  _I'm_ the one who told Spike he could trust you.  Because _I_ trusted you.  Because I thought…because you made me think…"  Her breath hitched.  "I actually believed I meant something to you.  That what happened between us was something real."

"It is.  You do."

"Then why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't.  I just…didn't get a good opportunity to mention it."

"That's semantics."

"That's reality.  The same reality that gave me chance after chance to act on the very thing you're now so worried I will, but didn't.  If I had wanted to see Spike, or you, or any one of your number behind bars, don't you think I would've done it already?  If that was my intention, I would never have offered to protect you.  And I certainly would never have offered to ambush the parties who were following you in my place of employment, where it's most likely one of my own bullets killed any of the bodies _I_ volunteered to take care of.  And I most definitely would _not_ have insisted Giles bring me here so that I could try and convince you that I'm on the up and up."

She stiffened when his hand slid inside his jacket, the slow, deliberate pace of his movement notwithstanding.  Her eyes followed the path of the Mont Blanc he extracted as he held it up and tossed it onto the counter beside her.

"I didn't fight back," Wesley said quietly.  For a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft rush of her breathing.  "Please, Willow.  Even if I can't convince you to listen to your heart, you have to at least listen to reason.  You're far too intelligent to ignore the obvious.  Even if it does hurt."

She was stopped from answering by the opening of the door.  Spike stood in its frame, sapphire eyes cold.  "Time's up."

*************

More than anything else, he was furious at himself for having been played for a sap, extending offers for both partnership and friendship after being suckered into believing the fed's "trust me" act.  Normally, Spike's instincts were spot on, and while he'd been reluctant to yield to the other Englishman's persuasions because of his over-protectiveness of Red, once he was assured of his intent there---or thought he had been---trusting him had been as simple as trusting Ripper or Harris.

So what exactly had gone wrong?

Containing his energy was proving a problem, and Spike paced in front of the couch, long strides that led him to the opposite side of the room far too quickly before he had to turn and head back in the other direction.  He could see Red out of the corner of his eye, hovering in the doorway of the kitchen, while standing against the opposite wall, ready for whatever order he would issue, Ripper and Harris waited at the alert.

"Give me one good reason why I don't plug you now and dump your body in the East River," Spike said, finally coming to a halt in front of Wesley on the couch.

"I'll give you two."  His eyes were calm, in spite of the wounds on his face, and he held his gaze steady under the furious scrutiny of the blond.  For a moment, Spike flashed in respect for the other man; refusing to show fear when stuck between a rock and a hard place was one of the traits that he so often admired in others.

"This oughta be good," Xander muttered.

Wesley's gaze never left the man before him.  "First of all, I'm not a threat to you---."

Spike snorted.  "You're a fuckin' fed.  That's about as threatening as you can get in my line of work."

"One who's broken at least half a dozen laws in helping you, if you care to remember.  One who's had ample opportunity to turn you in and has yet to do so."

He bit back his immediate retort.  The same realization had already dawned on him, and he couldn't find a satisfactory answer to it.  Wesley hadn't had to tell them about the blokes who were tailing Red, and he certainly didn't have to handle the clean-up afterward.  And his instincts were still screaming at him that he wasn't lying.

"You said you had two reasons," Spike said tightly.

"What?"  The tension burst from his wound muscles, and Giles bolted forward to confront his friend.  "Are you insane?  You're not actually believing him, are you?"

"Back off, Ripper."  The fact that he didn't even look at him didn't disguise the barely controlled menace in Spike's voice.  "We both know why you don't like him.  And it seems to me, the song he's singing isn't so off-key."

"How I feel isn't of consequence.  Look at how he used Willow to get to us---."

"He didn't."

Her voice took all of them by surprise, and Spike looked up to see the redhead come up behind the couch.  Though the astonishment was apparent on Wesley's face as well, it was quickly replaced with a small hopeful smile.

"Willow---."

"Don't, Giles," she said, holding up her hand.  "Think what you want about what he's done, but don't start trying to twist it around that I was in any way a non-willing participant."

The room was silent as she stared at her friend, broken only when Spike returned his cold gaze to the man on the sofa.  "You said, two reasons," he prompted.

"Yes," Wes said, nodding.  "Back at Heaven, I volunteered my resources to try and find out what I could about Wolfram and Hart.  I'd like to extend that offer to include determining the identity of whoever hired you---."

Giles' explosion cut him off.  "Don't bloody tell me you're listening to this claptrap!" he exclaimed.  "He's just telling you what you want to hear, Spike.  Why on earth would he want to help us?"

"Because this is about someone bigger than you, or Rook, or the little world you've created for yourself," came Wesley's rejoinder.  Fury drew him to his feet, heedless of the warning coiled through Spike's muscles.  "I've seen the files those lawyers had on you.  Someone has gone to a lot of expense and trouble to set all this up, which indicates an organization beyond your capabilities, no matter how silk you think you are.  And if you want the pragmatic view, if the Department has a chance to spear a big fish or a little fish, the big one will win.  Every.  Single.  Time."

"Tell them about Faith," Willow said from behind him.

Spike immediately frowned.  "What's this about Faith?"

"She asked me to find out who hired you," Wes replied, although his ire wasn't even slightly abated.  His gaze shifted.  "It seems _she_ recognizes my capacity to help in this."

"Why would she ask you?"

A second of hesitation.  "Because she fingered me for a white hat," he admitted.  "She's the reason the Mayor kept me out of the loop all this time."

Against his will, Spike grinned.  "Knew she was a smart bird."

"One who I believe knows more than she's telling."

His smile vanished.  "You think she knows who it is?"

"I'm fairly certain.  She gave me a rather cryptic message, telling me to 'follow the money.'"  He shook his head.  "That doesn't make sense to me, though.  The money trail for this job would lead directly from you to Wolfram and Hart, and back again.  Unless there's some connection between the law firm and the Mayor, I sincerely doubt they'd implicate themselves in such a way with a felony."

"That's not the only trail," Spike muttered, and he turned narrowed eyes to Ripper.

It took a moment for the other man to understand what he was implying, but when he did, Giles visibly deflated from his earlier anger, caught up in the discovery of what his friend was suggesting.  "Oh," he said.  "Of course.  We've been so focused, we've overlooked the obvious."

"What's so obvious?" Xander asked.

"The flow of the money.  Not ours."  His eyes glittered in delight, like a child proud of himself for solving a difficult puzzle.  "Wilkins'."

"Yes," Willow chimed in, momentarily caught up in the fervor.  "Who stands to benefit the most with the Mayor dead?"

"The one who gets all his money," Spike said.  His nostrils flared in distaste, his eyes steely diamond chips.  "Angel."

*************

She didn't know why she was surprised to see him sitting in her dressing room as she came back after her last set.  After all, Angel loved to show up when she was done performing, even if he didn't manage to catch the show.  Still, when Buffy pushed open the door and saw him at her dressing table, a small lurch in her stomach made her hesitate.

 "How was the show?" he asked.  Nothing remotely unnatural about his voice.  Even his eyes when they turned to look at her seemed their usual warm selves.  

You're being silly, Buffy chastised herself, and forced a smile as she closed the door shut behind her.  This is guilt about Spike getting to you in a huge way.  Since when has Angel ever been anything but the perfect gentleman?

"Quiet," she replied.  Crossing to the screen, she disappeared behind it, oddly grateful for the privacy.  "I think people still aren't sure what to do about your father's death."

His voice when it came again was too close, and she stiffened when she felt his fingers on the zipper at her back.  "They'll come around," Angel said.  "Tell me who can resist that voice of yours, dollface."

His hands felt clumsy against her skin, and she wondered just when it was that he went from being the man she was ready to spend the rest of her life with, to this stranger whose touch made her yearn for the lean hunger of Spike's fingers.  It wasn't that anything was wrong with Angel; it was just that now, she had learned that it wasn't enough.  It wasn't right to be with someone just because it was comfortable, or because there was some sense of debt.  There had to be that urgency, that need for the one at her side who understood without having to be told what exactly was going through her heart.  The sense of simpatico.  Completion.

Spike.

"Angel," she said quietly, although her voice seemed to boom in her ears, "I think we need to talk…"

"Yeah," he said, just as softly.  "I agree."  He didn't move, though.  Rather, his hands slipped beneath the straps of the dress to ease it from her shoulders, following their path over her arms as it pooled into ebony waves at her feet.  "I haven't had a chance to talk to you about the funeral tomorrow.  You're going to sing, aren't you?  He loved it when you sang for him."

"Of course."  The response was automatic, and while she certainly meant it, inwardly Buffy cringed at the implications another day would bring.  Can't very well break up with him the day before we bury his father, now can I? she thought.

"It's a shame he's going to miss the wedding," Angel was saying.  His fingers had returned to her shoulders, massaging at the tight muscles.  "It makes me wish I'd convinced you to get hitched sooner."  His touch firmed, kneading along either side of the slim column of her neck.  "Did you forget to wear your ring tonight?"

Too late, she glanced down and saw her bare finger.  Damn.  She'd forgotten all about it.  "I was in a rush.  It must still be in my purse."

"I'll get it."  Before she could stop him, he stepped back, and she reached for the blouse hanging over the screen just as he picked up her bag from the dressing table.  He hefted the weight of it for a moment, a quizzical smile on his face.  "Kinda heavy, isn't it?"

Buffy's face remained neutral as he opened it up, pulling out the small revolver tucked inside.  When he held it up in curiosity, she shrugged, sliding her arms into the sleeves of her top.  "I've been a little leery lately," she explained.  "A girl can't be too careful."

"You should've said something.  I'd've assigned you some bodyguards."  He chuckled.  "I mean, it's not like you can shoot the thing…right?"

"Well enough.  And you know how I hate having your men hovering around.  I thought I'd made that clear."  She waited for him to put the gun down, but instead he cradled it into the palm of his hand, almost losing it in his meaty paw.  His finger danced around the trigger, stroking the cool metal like a woman's skin.

"I don't like the idea of you packing, Buffy."  All amusement was gone from his voice, and when she met his gaze again, they had hardened in determination.  "You're better than this."

"I'm also better alive than dead," she retorted.  "Now, please put it away before one of us gets hurt."

For a moment, she wasn't sure he was going to do it.  Dark eyes locked on hers, and he just stood there, watching as if he was waiting for her to say something.  The beginnings of a warning bell were starting to peal inside her head, when Angel finally shrugged, slipping the gun back into the purse.  "Funny you saying you were in a rush," he mused as he tossed the bag aside.  "Someone told me they saw you around Heaven this afternoon."

"Someone's stringing you along then," she replied automatically.  "Because I was shopping all day."  She'd been prepared to give the excuse on the off-chance she'd been seen; she just hadn't thought she'd be giving it to Angel.  

"Oh.  Of course.  I didn't really believe them, you know.  I just thought it was kind of funny."  In front of her again, hands over hers as he finished with her buttons.  "Bought yourself something pretty, I hope," he said, and pushed a strand of her hair away from the collar.  "It wouldn't do to have my best girl not outshining the rest of the dames out there."

She didn't know what it was, but something about his behavior was odd.  Carefully, Buffy watched him through her lashes, surveying the soft set of his mouth, eyes flickering to where his hands lingered on her front.  He looked fine, and his words certainly sounded like his usual…maybe it was just her own tightly wound nerves expecting the worse.  I've been listening too much to Spike, she decided, and forced the smile to return to her lips.  His paranoia is starting to rub off on me.

"So I'll meet you at the church in the morning?" she said, backing away to pick up her skirt.

His lids narrowed.  "I was hoping we'd be driving there together," he said slowly.  "We haven't been spending much time together lately.  I'm feeling kind of…lonely."

As gently as she could, Buffy lifted her face, brushing her mouth across his in a soft kiss.  "Let's get past the funeral first," she said.  "We're both so tired from everything, and it'll be…better if we can concentrate on what's important tomorrow."  She hated lying.  She was so bad at it, and while she knew that spending the night with Angel would only ruin what she had with Spike, part of her was wishing she could just go ahead and do it, to alleviate some of her own guilt for hurting him so much when the time came for her to leave.  Angel had done so much for her over the years, and what he was asking for wasn't exactly unreasonable.  Maybe she was…

"Whatever you say," he said.  She noticed then the beads of sweat that were starting to form on his forehead, but before she could comment on them, he had turned away, taking long strides toward her door.  "Good night, Buffy."

*************

It was all he could do to get out of her room before his temper erupted again.  Breathing heavily, Angel leaned against the wall outside her door, head bowed as his fists buried themselves in his pockets.  

She was lying to him.  She was covering herself carefully, but he could see through it.  He'd certainly spent enough years watching her to know when the truth came from those luscious lips.  He knew her better than she knew herself; did she really think she could get away with deceiving him like this?

Had to be Rook.  It was the only explanation.  Somehow, he'd gotten to her and turned her against Angel, against everything she had decent in her life.  That Lilah dame was right, which meant it was time for him to start listening to her about the other things as well.

Rook would have to pay.  Far greater than any trip to the hoosegow.  It was the only way to clear him out of Buffy's system.  It would mean meeting with the lawyers again, and there might be some arguing involved, but damn it, jail just wasn't good enough for the bastard any more.

Angel wanted blood.

*************

Finally, peace and quiet.  It had taken far too long for Lilah to go to bed, but now that she had, Lindsey slouched in the couch, eyes closed as he rested his head against the back, the tumbler of whisky forgotten in his hand.  There'd been no more movement on finding Rook, and frankly, he was sick and tired of her self-conscious preening in anticipation of his failure to complete the case satisfactorily.  What he wouldn't do to see the bitch get a little of Rook's treatment.  For some reason, Lindsey thought it would make a great show.

The knock at the door was more of a thump, and he frowned as he glanced at the clock.  Who could it be at this hour?  The only one with the moxie to show their face so late was Trick, and the idea of dealing with the mobster was almost as appealing as facing off with Lilah again.

With a sigh, Lindsey set down his glass and crossed to the door, straightening his tie along the way.  Maybe it's good news for a change, he thought, and almost laughed out loud.  Uh huh. Yeah.  Right.

Her bowed head was the last he expected to see, but the surprise on Lindsey's face was replaced with stunned shock when she lifted her eyes to look at him.  The entire left side of her face was mottled in blossoming bruises, the blood on her lip dried where it had been split.  The right side crooked into a grin, though, as Faith pushed away from the jamb that had been holding her up.

"So how's my favorite mouthpiece?" she joked.  There was a slight slurring to her words, and in spite of her bravado, the effort to speak waned her strength even further, pitching her forward to be caught by his ready arms.

"What in hell happened to you?" he hissed, pulling her inside the suite.

"Met the wrong side of a door," she quipped.  Her eyes darted around.  "We alone?"

His gaze flickered to the closed door of Lilah's room.  "Alone enough."

With a heavy sigh, Faith collapsed onto the couch, reaching into her purse to extract her cigarettes.  "Don't suppose you'd be willing to help a gal lay low for a little bit," she asked.  "Seeing as how you're my lawyer and everything."

"Are you going to tell me what happened to you?  For real?  And no more bad jokes about doors or falling boxes."

"Whatever you want."  There was no more fight in her as she lit up, the flame of her lighter dancing from the slight trembling in her hands.  She took a long drag before sinking into the cushions, her lids fluttering shut.  "Whatever you want."

*************

He watched her as she dropped the paper onto Finn's desk, not even looking in his direction when she turned and left the precinct.  Not like Kate Lockley ever noticed a guy like him anyway, Warren groused, but he waited until he heard the door to the stairwell slam shut behind her before rising to his feet.

It wasn't much, just a few notes with a name and address scribbled at the bottom.  Lindsey McDonald.  For some reason, he knew the name should be ringing bells but its significance was escaping him at the moment.  Didn't matter though.  It was just his job to relay information, not analyze it.

Tucking the paper into his pocket, Warren scurried back to his desk, checking the hallway once more to ensure he was alone before picking up the phone and dialing.  It was picked up on the first ring.  "I think I've got something for you," he said into the receiver.

*************

"What was that about?"

Trick frowned as he stared at the phone he'd just replaced on the cradle.  "That cop we bought off says Finn's getting interested in McDonald."  His dark eyes lifted to gaze steadily at his boss seated behind the desk.  "How'd they cotton on to the lawyers so fast?"

"Did he mention Lilah?"

"No."

"Then it's just Lindsey who's the idiot."    He leaned back in his chair, long fingers tapping restlessly against the desktop.  "I should've known when that bastard Rook got away that he'd mess this up."

"You want me to meet with him?"

"No.  I'm tired of meetings.  For some reason, I think he's the type to respond more positively to actions rather than words."

Trick grinned.  "Actions work for me.  You just say the word.  I'll make sure McDonald gets the message loud and clear."

"Let me make a call first.  After all, this is a business arrangement.  Just because there's one bad apple, doesn't mean the whole barrel's gone off."  Flipping through the Rolodex at his side, he cradled the phone against his shoulder as he began dialing the number.  His gaze glinted in satisfaction as he waited for the other end to pick up.  "Holland Manners, please.  Tell him it's Robin Wood on the line…"

To be continued in Chapter 25:  The Beautiful Sinner…


	25. The Beautiful Sinner

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Faith has gone to Lindsey after Angel's visit, Angel has figured out Buffy is lying to him, and Spike and the gang have figured out Angel is behind the hit on the Mayor after speaking with Wesley…

*************

One of these days, she was going to have to ask Mickey how come he knew so much about sneaking around.

When Buffy emerged from Heaven, she would've walked right past his parked car if he hadn't stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her attention.  Literally.  Well, actually, it was her elbow that he grabbed, and it was just so that she wouldn't head for the taxi that was waiting for her a little further along.

"There's someplace else you have to be," he'd said cryptically.

The question of where sprung to her lips, but when she caught the quick dart of his eyes back toward the club, she recognized his request for secrecy and instead just smiled and nodded.  It wasn't until both of them were settled in his car that she ventured to ask.

"Spike's at the room your club manager's set up for himself and the redhead," Mickey explained.  "He called and asked me to take you over there."

He hadn't known any other details, so Buffy had finished the trip to the hotel lost in her musings.  It had to be important if he wasn't hiding, and by the time she was knocking at the door, she had managed to convince herself that they'd finally found the answers they'd been searching for.

Willow answered the door, and immediately the blonde knew something was wrong.  The other woman's face was pinched and drawn, a sad film darkening her green eyes.  The smile she offered was meant to be reassuring, but instead left Buffy with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.  Bad.  Something was bad.  Oh god, please don't be Spike.

When she saw him lounging on the windowsill, the pane of glass thrown up to allow the smoke that filtered from his cigarette to waft out into the midnight, the knot within her eased only until he turned his face toward her.  No move in her direction.  No emotion flickering across his face.  He was deliberately keeping himself away from her, masking whatever was going on inside his head.  

"What is it?" she asked, dropping her purse and coat to the side and stepping into the living room of the hotel suite.  "What's wrong?"

Only then did she see Wesley sitting on the couch, but when he rose to his feet to stand before her, all other thoughts scattered when she saw the injuries inflicted to his face.  "I think you should sit down, Buffy," he said, sidestepping her approach when she neared him.

"Someone better tell me pretty quick what the hell is going on here," she demanded as she stood her ground.  She folded her arms across her chest as she stared up at Wesley.  "Why does your face look like something from the meat market?"

"This might be better if you're sitting down," Willow said, coming up beside her to try and press her into the couch.

The look she shot all of them was icy.  "If any one of you thinks I'm the fainting type, I'm going to turn around right now and go back to my apartment.  Whatever happened, I can take it.  I'm a big girl."

Wesley's nod was one of understanding.  "We believe we know who hired Spike to kill the Mayor."

There was no quelling the exhilaration that thrummed through her veins, in spite of everyone's dour expressions.  "But that's good news!" she protested.  "Why is everyone acting like they just found out Santa Claus isn't real?"  Buffy glanced over at Spike, but his face was turned away again, gazing down over the street, the street music from the paths of life below underlying the tension within the room.

She turned back in time to see the look exchanged between Wes and Willow.  "Because…" the redhead said.  "…we think, although really we're not sure yet but everything seems to be pointing in that direction, or maybe just generally waving.  Pointing is a little too definitive, don't you think?"  The last was posited to the man at her side, and Buffy had to grit her teeth in order not to yell at the girl to just get on with it.

Wesley took a deep breath.  "Every indication seems to suggest that Angel is the one who ordered the hit."

"Angel?"  For a moment, she thought she was hearing things, but when Willow turned from her gaze, leaving Wes the only one able to meet her eyes, disbelief overwhelmed her excitement, and she began shaking her head.  "No.  No.   You're wrong.  It's not Angel.  It can't be."

"Part of me hopes I am."

It was what he left unspoken---_and part of me hopes I'm not_---that loosed the bonds that had rooted her feet.  Buffy stumbled back, into the unsuspecting chest of Mickey, and jerked away when his hands came up to steady her.  "Angel wouldn't have his own father killed," she managed to say.  "It's not in him."  Her head whirled when she heard the nearly silent snort of derision from the sill, but Spike still had his head turned away.

"Giles and Xander are doing what they can now to get us confirmation," Wesley said.  "But we won't know for certain until after we've spoken to that lawyer tomorrow---."

"Was this _your_ brilliant deduction?"  Faster than a cheetah after prey, Buffy twisted to face off with her manager, the color high in her cheeks as she brought up an accusing finger.  "You're also the one who was convinced Spike was trying to kill _me_, remember?  Why on earth do you think you're not wrong about this, too?"

"It was a group deduction," Willow intervened.  "Using the information Wesley provided us."

"And you got this information from where?"

He lifted his chin.  "From Faith."

Her laugh was a guffaw that cleaved the air.  "You're pulling my leg here, right?  Faith?  Miss Unreliability herself?  I mean, don't get me wrong, most of the time, Faith's just jake, but figuring out who killed Mr. Wilkins?  She's not exactly invested in the brain trust, Wes.  You should know that.  There's no way she could've---."

"Just listen to him, Buffy."

They were the first words to come from Spike's mouth since she'd arrived, and they drew her like the magnet he was.  His smoking over, he'd shifted his weight so that he faced the room, and his blue eyes were level on hers, boring into her with a gentleness that surprised her, considering the gravity of the situation.  Before she could prevent it, though, the question bubbled to her lips.

"This was _your_ brainchild, wasn't it?" she asked softly.  "Are you _so_ jealous of Angel that you cooked this up in order to make me turn against him?"  
His only response was a tightening of his jaw.

"Spike had nothing to do with it," said Wesley behind her.  "It was all my doing.  Willow just wanted to make it appear a group effort considering my last conclusion regarding this situation was so drastically wrong."

Instantly, remorse made her gnaw at her lip.  Though he wasn't saying anything, Buffy knew her accusation had cut Spike deeper than he was showing, and fervently wished she hadn't said it out loud.  I'm sorry, she thought at him, hoping that he could see it in her eyes.

But there was no change in his demeanor.  Not even when he spoke again.  "Doesn't mean I don't think it's true, though."

He'd known how she was going to react, she realized.  Hence, his silent act.  Torn between discovering the truth that would liberate him from his blackmail and his consideration for her feelings, he'd chosen to abstain from getting involved.  To avoid hurting her.  To allow her to draw her own conclusions. 

And she'd failed him by jumping to the worst.

The arms folded over his body meant apologizing now was out of the question.  He wasn't ready to hear it, and truthfully, Buffy wasn't sure she was ready to say it.  Shame still burned within, so instead of having to see the disappointment mirrored in those blue depths, she turned back to face the other two.  "Faith's playing you for a rube, Wes.  What kind of angle could she possibly have to think you'd turn on Angel like that?"

"Because she knew I would.  Apparently, Faith fingered me a long time ago."  He took a deep breath as if that would somehow make whatever came out of his mouth next easier.  "I'm not who you think I am, Buffy.  I'm a federal agent."

"You're…what?"  A night of surprises.  Angel being odd back at the club.  The group convinced that her fiancé---OK, so maybe in name only, but still---had put out a hit on his own father.  And now…Wes…

Her skin was ice, and she shivered as she took a step away from him.  Eyes wide in a mixture of disbelief and suspicion, every instinct that she'd ever had regarding the Englishman came screeching back at her, taunting her with the thought that she should've known it all along, that a right gee like him had to have an ulterior motive to working for the family like he did.  Had she learned nothing in California?  After everything that had happened, she should've been able to spot him from a mile away.  And yet he'd slipped under her radar, ingratiating himself into her trust.

How could she trust anyone anymore when she couldn't even trust herself?

"You're a cop," she finally murmured.

Wesley shook his head.  "I work for the _federal_ government.  I was assigned to take down the Mayor."

Her gaze jumped to Willow.  "And you're _all right_ with this?"  Her voice was more strident than she would've liked, but her rising nerves were making the bile burn in the back of her throat.

"I've only just found out," the redhead said softly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.  "We've _all_ only just found out."

That explained the bruises then.  Spike had probably had a field day laying into him.  Not that she probably wouldn't have done the exact same thing if she'd been the one to discover the truth.  Hell, Wesley would've been lucky to escape with his life if she'd been around when he 'fessed up.

"I need to get out of here," she breathed, and turned toward the door.

"Buffy, wait."

Only Spike's voice could've stopped her, and her shoulders sagged slightly as looked back at him.  He'd risen from his perch, brows knitted together as the cant of his head conveyed his confusion.  "You can either take me back to your apartment," she said to him, not allowing herself to look over at the other occupants of the room, "or I'll get Mickey to take me back to mine."

He didn't even hesitate, long strides bringing him to her side.  When his hand lit on the small of her back, Buffy fought the urge to collapse against him, using his touch instead to gird her resolve.  She offered Mickey a tight smile, saying, "Thanks for the ride," before walking determinedly out into the hall.

Spike paused before following.  "You goin' to be all right, Red?" he asked, his eyes jumping between her and Wesley.

She nodded.  "We'll be fine.  You go be with Buffy.  She needs you right now."

"I'll walk out with you," Mickey said to the blond.  "I'm pretty sure my job is done here."

When the door closed behind them, the silence settled over the room like cotton wool, thick and too hot and suffocating in more ways than one.  Willow could hear his breathing, drowned out only by the pounding of her heart that she was alone with him---truly alone with him, no friends waiting in the other room kind of alone---for the first time since discovering the truth.  Her assurances to Spike to the contrary, she wasn't completely certain that she'd done the smartest thing in letting him go.  Not that she didn't believe Wesley was going to hurt her.

She just didn't believe she wasn't going to hurt him.

"That was…not what I expected," he finally murmured.

"I think she was just as bothered by finding out you were a fed as she was about Angel."  Her laugh was more of a bark.  "What?  Did you sleep with _her_, too?  Is that why she gave us the duck and run?"  The withering glance he shot her made her blush at her caustic remark, and as quickly as she could manage, she turned away from him, walking toward the kitchen.  "Sorry," she mumbled.  "I'm just…just.  Sorry."

His hand had wrapped around her upper arm before she reached her destination, gently pulling her to a halt.  "Is asking to discuss this---_us_---some more…too much?" he murmured when she looked up at him.

"I didn't think we had anything more to say."

"We do if it's still in you to make such uncharacteristic comments."

Willow was convinced her face was as bright as her hair.  So, yeah, maybe she was still smarting over being played for such a fool.  She had every right to be.  He'd _lied_ to her, and just because he supposedly had halfway decent intentions, didn't make it right.  And neither did the fact that Spike seemed so jake with the new information.  Oh, sure, he'd been upset at first.  Furious, really.  But after listening to Wesley talk---and god, he could be smooth, no wonder she'd been such a sucker---and coming to the conclusion about Angel, Spike had pulled him back into the circle just as if he'd never left, seemingly believing his protestations that he meant the ex-hitman no harm.

Giles had been livid, but with the discussion turning to the problem at hand, his distraction had been sufficient for Spike to defuse him slightly, turning his attention away from the agent and toward the more critical threat to the group.  There was some unspoken dynamic going on between the three men that she didn't understand, and it left Willow wondering if she really knew any of them at all.

Only Xander had reacted as she'd expected, going along with Spike's acceptance and treating Wes like he was one of the gang right up until the time he'd left with Giles.

"I said I was sorry," she argued.  "It just slipped out.  Words have a tendency to do that around my mouth."

"I'm not trying to tighten the screws on you or anything," he assured, and dropped his hand to accentuate his point.  "I just want to know where we stand."

"It looks like a hotel room."

"Stop being so literal."

"And stop trying to force my hand."  She took a deep breath, each of his words turning her muscles into jelly.  "What do you expect to happen, Wesley?  Do you honestly think I can just forget about all the deception?  OK, so maybe I work with guys who've managed to turn sneaking around into an artform, but that's work.  That's not personal.  Friends don't lie to each other.  You just can't do that to people who care about you."  When the corner of his mouth lifted, she frowned.  "What?  What's so funny?"

"You admitted you cared about me."

"That was _so_ not the point of what I just said."  

"Maybe not to you."  His hand lifted, knuckles brushing like feathers across her cheek as his sapphire gaze drank her down.  "I'm not some bunco artist, no matter what you want to believe.  I just think I have to do what I can to make things better for people.  And until two days ago, that meant nailing the Mayor.  Everything I said to you, about how you make me feel, about what I wanted my future to be, that was all true.  I've never lied to you about anything important, Willow."

She shook her head in denial.  "No, you've only lied to me about who you are.  That's not important at all."

"Not who I am.  What I do.  There's a difference.  And don't tell me you can't grasp that concept.  Not when you work for Spike."

He was still touching her, each caress a breath along her skin, and Willow could physically feel her resolve begin to melt in the face of his reasoning.  The urge to reach up and kiss away the hurts adorning his face swelled inside her, threatening to rampage over her common sense like a forest fire burning out of control.  His logic was impeccable.  She liked logic.  Normally, it worked in her favor.  She just wasn't used to being the one on its short stick.

"You're not playing fair," she murmured, and forced her body to take a step back, away from the heat of his fingers, the promise of his eyes.

"And how many different ways must I tell you that I'm not playing games here," he countered.  He took his own step back, lifting his chin.  "You have to stop blinding yourself to the truth, Willow.  Sooner or later, you're just going to have to accept the fact that I'm in love with you and be done with it."

"Huh?"  Speaking was suddenly a chore, a vise wrapping around her chest tighter and tighter, forcing her eyes to pop in surprise.  She was hearing things; she had to be.  He did not just tell her he was…

"…in love with you," Wes repeated.  "Do you really think I'd be willing to give up everything I've worked toward for anything less?"

"But…we just…we only…we never…"  OK, finishing sentences looking to be a problem here, she thought wildly.  She'd mastered the subject all right; it was getting around to any viable verbs that was proving impossible.

She was helpless when he took her hand in his and led her back to the couch, pulling her down to sit next to him without a word.  "I'm not going to force you," he said quietly.  "I understand this is a lot to take in right now.  But I rather hoped that the time we'd shared meant you'd grant me a stay of execution and allow me to try and explain some things."

"I thought you'd already done with the explanations."  It was annoying to her how faint her voice sounded, like someone had just knocked the wind out of her sails and left her floating on a calm sea without a paddle.  Somewhere deep inside, there was a furious girl itching to rip her way out and tell Wesley just exactly what she thought of him, how angry he made her for doing this.  But that same girl was trying to hold back the tears of hurt, holding herself together like the brave little soldier Xander always called her.  At the moment, neither seemed to be winning.

"Some of them.  But I've been wanting to tell you my feelings for some time now.  Normally, I'm not so…upfront about them, but I thought you…it appeared that you might reciprocate them, so I was willing to take that risk."  He turned away from her then, tearing his eyes away from her to stare down at the carpet, his back hunched as he rested his forearms on his knees.  "I've spent a lot of years alone, and frankly, I'd rather resigned myself to the fact that I would be married to my work.  Not that I was bothered by that.  I love what I do."  He had to turn his head slightly in order to glance at her properly, the swelling around his eyes making any small movements there impossible.  "I love you more."

"Then you know why this hurts me so much," Willow said.  "You think you have a monopoly on feelings?  That you can play abracadabra with three little words and poof!  It'll just make everything all better?  Think again, Wes.  You're such a wise head, this should be a cakewalk for you to figure out."  

"I understand you're in pain---."

"Then why do you insist on rubbing salt into the wounds?  This _hurts_.  Believing one thing about you and finding out you didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth.  How can you even think we can build any sort of future together if you can't be straight with me?"  Her fingers were twisting in her lap, itching to tear away and touch him in spite of the emotion washing through her body, but she held back the impulse, staring at him with shiny eyes.  Not going to cry, not going to cry, she intoned silently.  Darn it all, he better not make me cry again.

"Tell me what you want."  His voice was so gentle, achingly soft as he looked away again, coaxing the sympathy to rise within her like a balloon on a hot day.  "Anything you want.  I don't wish to be the source of your pain, Willow.  You tell me what to do…and I'll do it."

She said the first thing that came to her head.  "Get Spike out of this mess."

"I'd already planned on it."  A long pause.  "That's it?  Just…clear Spike's name and move on with our lives?  You…me…walking our separate paths into the sunset?"

She didn't like that word "separate."  In spite of everything, the thought of him not being there felt oddly empty, and this time she didn't resist the urge to reach for him.  "And time," she said softly, her fingers settling like a small bird on his forearm.  She waited for him to look up at her, and sank into the intensity of his gaze.  "I want time.  To sort this all out.  To…see how this all ends up."

If it was possible, his eyes burned brighter, lit by what she could only assume was newfound hope.  "I can be a very patient man," he replied.  Carefully, he lifted his left hand to place it over the one she had resting on his arm.  "Especially for things that matter."

Her lips quirked into an unbidden smile.  "Then I guess we kind of balance each other out," she said.  "Because I'm generally of the not-so-willing-to-wait type."  Her temporary jollity faltered.  "I don't want you to think that it's not that I don't care.  It's just…that I care too much.  It's scary, and painful, and I really _want_ the silver lining…but I don't know how to see it when there's so much swirliness going on inside my head."

It was his turn to smile.  "Swirliness?" he teased.

"Get used to it, buster," she teased back.  "You want me to end up somewhere in your life, you're just going to have to get familiar with my choice of vocabulary.  It ain't going anywhere."

"Of course not."  The smile faded, but the hope in his eyes did not.  "I wouldn't have it any other way."

*************

For some reason, stopping his frenetic pacing was out of the question for Xander.  "You do realize I'm deader than dead when Anya sniffs this out, don't you?" he asked of the other man in the room, not really expecting a reply.  "And then Spike will be dead, and then most likely you and Willow, purely on a just because basis."

Giles sighed from his seat near the door.  "Then perhaps you shouldn't have reminded Spike of the connection," he chastised.  "We could've waited until tomorrow for confirmation regarding Angel."

Xander laughed.  "Yeah, right, like that was going to happen once Spike got the bee stuck in his bonnet.  Once Wesley spilled the beans about what Faith said, I didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of coming out of this with anywhere near clean hands."

He missed the darkening of the older man's face at the mention of Wes' name.  "I do hope Willow knows what she's doing," Giles murmured.  

"Eh, Spike was acting like Wesley was just jake, so I'm sure Will will be fine," he said dismissively.  He stuffed his hands into his pockets, his step quickening.  "Me, on the other hand, I'm an entirely different story.  Yep.  Me and all the swimming little fishies.  Living at the bottom of the sea in harmony."

"Ooo, talking about me already."  Her voice at the door grated him to a halt, and Xander jerked his head around to see the blonde hooker standing seductively in the doorway.  A baby blue peignoir set floated around her curves, leaving very little to the imagination, and he blushed in remembrance of how she had felt pressed against him.  Think of Anya, he reminded himself.  Who's sexier and smarter in her little finger than this ditzy dame is in her whole body.

"I just knew you'd be back, Xander Harris," Harmony gloated as she stepped inside.  Nudging the door closed, she was oblivious to Giles' presence in the room behind her as she slowly stalked toward the young man.  "Told you we could have fun together.  Ready to take me for a ride?"

The pink deepened to crimson, and he stumbled backward to get away from her outstretched hands.  "I'm not here for riding you," he rushed.

"Then I can ride _you_."  Her smile sweltered as she grabbed his tie and yanked him toward her.

"No!  There will be _no_ riding!"  He pushed her hands away, scrambling to put the couch between them, tripping over the ornate chair that blocked his path.

Harmony laughed, clapping her hands.  "Oh, I like this game!" she squealed, and darted forward.

He wriggled out of her reach, crawling along his hands and knees until there was sufficient furniture to block her path, and then struggled back to his feet.  "This isn't a game, girlie," he warned with a shake of his finger.  "I just paid for a little of your time so that we can talk."

Jutting out her lower lip, she crossed her arms over her breasts.  "You're no fun."  Only then did she notice the other man in the room, and her pretend pout vanished at the potential.  "You didn't tell me you brought a friend this time."  She affected her best sexy pose, aiming it directly for Giles.  "Do _you_ want a ride?"

"No," he replied calmly, and pulled out his gun from inside his jacket, pointing it directly at her.  "I want you to take us to see Darla."

If he hadn't been so much in hate with having to come back to the whorehouse for a second time, Xander would've laughed out loud at the visible blanching that made Harmony's overdone face even whiter.  For someone in her line of work, she sure isn't too familiar with the darker side of the street, he thought.  He bit his lip to keep the grin from emerging, and instead stepped aside to let the Englishman take charge.  Essentially, his job was done.  Get them into the house to see Harmony.  It was now up to Giles to finish the route to Darla.

"Darla doesn't see customers anymore," Harmony said.  Her voice had reverted to a little girl's, and Xander could see the beginnings of a tremor starting to overtake her limbs.  "If that's who you're interested in fucking, you're out of luck."

"That's not our purpose here," Giles said smoothly.  "We only want to speak to her.  And if you wish to remain so pretty, I'd suggest you take us there.  Right.  Now."

"I could scream, you know."

"Then you'd be dead before you could open your mouth."

It always amazed Xander when he slipped into Ripper mode.  That's what he called it, at least.  Spike might be willing to overlook the softer side of Giles, but he quite preferred it.  Ripper made his blood run cold.  Like now.  Pretty much like he had all night.  You didn't fuck around with him when he was like this.  You risked losing your head.  Literally.

Thank god Harmony seemed to have enough brains to see just what she was dealing with, he thought as he saw the decision settle her features.  "You're going to have to put your piece away," she said.  "You can't just be waving a gun around in here.  Someone'll call the cops."  Too late, she realized that that was probably exactly what she wanted to happen in the face of what looked like a madman, and she scowled, shaking her head at her own stupidity.

"It's not going anywhere.  So I suggest you find a route to Darla that will keep it from anyone's prying eyes."

She sighed, rolling her eyes as she headed toward the door.  "Fine.  Be that way."  She shot the brunette a dirty look as she passed him.  "And I don't care if you have pretty peepers.  You have really mean friends, Xander Harris."

*************

Her back was to the door when they slipped inside, her lithe form standing before the open window, gazing out over the twinkling lights of the city.  Long blonde hair flowed down the graceful column of her back, and Xander couldn't resist the thought that at least Angel Wilkins had a type.  Petite blondes, he noted.  When she turned around, his eyes widened.  _Gorgeous_ petite blondes.

She didn't even seem bothered by the fact that there were now two strange men standing in her office, or that one of them had a gun aimed at her heart.  Cold blue eyes jumped from them, to the closed door behind them, to the telephone that sat out of her reach on the desk across the room, and then back to their faces.

"Well, this is an interesting situation," Darla said with a small smile.  "I have to say, it's been awhile since I've entertained men who were quite as…forceful as you."

"We're not here to be entertained," said Giles.  His voice was just as cold.  "We're here for information."

"From little ol' me?"  She laughed.  "That's not usually what I sell."

When she began to move away from the window, the audible cocking of the gun's hammer filled the room, followed immediately by Giles', "Don't move."

Her faux mirth vanished, and Darla squared her shoulders.  "You really are amateurs, aren't you?" she taunted.  "You want information?  Then think about it.  I'm a whore, fellas.  You can pretty much _buy_ me.  So unless you brought the scratch to pay for what you want, you can count on this canary keeping her song to herself."

Giles surprised him by reaching into his inside coat pocket, extracting a thick envelope and holding it up for the blonde to see.  "I've got two thousand dollars in here," he said.  "It's yours if you answer one yes or no question for us."

There was no mistaking the greedy glint that shone in her eyes, or the slight curl of her mouth at the corner.  Xander almost expected to see her lick her lips at the prospect of what was in the envelope.  "Two grand for one word?" she said.  "Now that's the kind of song I like to sing."

"Angel Wilkins."  The name took her by surprise, and the light dulled in her aspect as her lids narrowed.  Giles went on.  "Did he order the hit on his father?"

The quiet that descended over the trio thickened to lava bubbling around their skin as Xander waited for her response.  Thirty seconds later, he realized he was holding his breath, and exhaled as quietly as he could, brown eyes never wavering from the blonde across the room.

"You have a lot of moxie to come in here and expect me to sell out Angel," Darla finally said softly.  

"You're the one who suggested a bargain involving cash," Giles countered.  "I was content to barter with your life.  Now.  Answer the question."

"No."

The two men were silent for a moment before Xander's brows knitted together in a confused frown.  "Wait," he said.  "Is that, no you won't answer the question, or no _is_ the answer to the question?"

She rolled her eyes.  "No, I'm not answering the question.  You couldn't pay me enough to turn over anything on Angel.  We go too far back."

"Ah, yes.  Your…history.  This would be the same one he's turned his back on so that he can marry Buffy Summers, correct?"

Nostrils flaring was the only sign that the singer's name meant anything to Darla.  "He's only getting hitched to the little bitch because his father told him he couldn't marry me without losing everything.  Trust me.  I'm still up there in his books."

"But his father's dead now," Giles continued.  "Surely that would mean he was free to marry whomever he pleased.  And yet, I do believe he is continuing his plans for the wedding with Miss Summers.  I saw the ring on her finger this very night, in fact.  Quite lovely.  And large.  I'm assuming outrageously expensive.  They seemed very happy."

The last was a lie, even Xander knew that.  They hadn't even seen Buffy since the diner, but no way could he spill on that around Darla.

The almost infinitesimal dropping of her shoulders was all the Englishman needed to know he'd created a chink.  "It's one word, and really, what harm will you be doing?  The police are after the shooter, not the one who paid him.  And you'll be two thousand dollars richer without him ever being the wiser to our being here."

This last made her contemplate the offer yet again, but this time when the gleam returned to those icy blue depths, Xander was convinced it was just as much anger as it was avarice.

"Fine," she finally said.  "We have a deal.  Except you asked me the wrong question."

Giles' brows lifted behind his glasses.  "Oh?" he asked, for the first time since his arrival exhibiting a note of surprise.

Darla nodded.  "The correct question is, is Angel the _only_ one behind the hit on his father?"  She smiled, a cold, deadly curl that made Xander grateful that he wasn't Angel Wilkins right now.  "And the answer to _that_ question…is no."

To be continued in Chapter 26: The World, the Flesh, and the Devil…


	26. The World, the Flesh, and the Devil

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Faith has gone to Lindsey after Angel's visit, and after learning of her fiance's involvement in the murder as well as Wesley's true profession, Buffy has asked Spike to take her back to his place…

*************

He didn't even question his own response.  Something had happened back at the other hotel, something that ran deeper than not wanting to believe the truth about Angel, but Spike had let her be, guiding her down to the Desoto and driving off into the darkness toward the apartment, giving her the space for which her body was screaming.  Buffy hadn't said a word, merely curled into the corner of her seat as she stared blankly out the window, the pale reflection of her skin the only glimpse he was allowed of her face.  

That's all he wanted, really.  To be able to look into her eyes and know that everything was just jake.   To see the green and drown in their purity, just as he did every single time she looked at him.  Though he'd expected her accusations---just another reason why he'd insisted Wesley and Willow be the ones to tell her, didn't need to add fuel to the fire, he'd reasoned---that foreknowledge didn't assuage the stab of pain they'd left when she'd fired them at him.  Only her offer to take her back to his place had soothed the anger away, and he'd not hesitated to accept her peace offering.  Even if she couldn't exactly say the words.

Now, half an hour later, they were approaching the apartment building with neither of them having said a word since leaving Wesley's.  The street was dead, so finding a parking spot in front was cake.  When he killed the engine, though, the motion of Spike's hand toward the door handle was stilled when he realized Buffy wasn't moving as well.

"We're here," he said unnecessarily, and risked reaching out to push back a lock of hair from her shoulder, exposing the curve of her cheek to the golden streetlight that filtered through the windshield.

"You're trusting him."  Her voice was tiny and lost in the vast expanse of the car and Spike saw the barest flicker of her fingers as they began stroking the leather of the seat at her side.  "After everything…who you are and what you've done and the fact that he's lied to you and everyone…you just walked away from Wesley and left one of your best friends behind."  That was when she turned, eyes wide and bottomless as she stared at him.  "Why?"

"I'm goin' with my gut," he replied.  It was true.  Too much of what Wes had said made sense, and in the end, it was easier to set aside the disquiet of the other man's misrepresentations and follow his own instincts.  Red was hurt, and that made him angrier than almost anything else, but on this, Spike believed he was right.

"You're making a mistake," she said, shaking her head.

He frowned.  "You're kidding me, right?  Aren't you the one who's been tellin' me all along that Wesley rates?  What's with the about-face?"

"He's a fed.  He _lied_ to you, to all of us.  He's…"  She fought to find the right words, and then shook her head in defeat.  "…a fed," she finished, repeating herself.

"And normally I'd agree with you and say that's a bad thing," he countered.  "But this time it's different.  He's not been a part of the game for awhile, luv, and he's willing to take a powder on it which says a helluva lot in my book."  His hand caught hers, stopping the tracery against the seat, and for the first time, he felt the tremors wreaking havoc beneath her skin.  "What's goin' on?" he asked, the cadences of his voice no more than a whisper.  "This isn't about Wesley.  This is something else, something that's spooking you worse than I've ever seen.  Tell me, pet.  I can't help you if you don't tell me."

Her lashes fell, and for a long moment, he wondered if he'd pushed too hard.  Shouldn't have used the word _help_, he chastised silently.  Certainly doesn't need my help.  Needs my _understanding_.

"It's probably time I tell you anyway," Buffy said, and it sounded as if her voice came from faraway.  Her eyes lifted then, shiny and level but astonishingly clear.

"Tell me what?"

"All of it.  What happened to me in California.  Why me and cops get along about as good as cats and dogs.  Why I can't believe that Angel could do what you think."

Spike's hand went back to the door.  "Let's get upstairs, then," he said.  "This isn't the place---."

"No."  Louder now, as if she was gaining courage.  She pulled her hand away to fold it with the other in her lap.  "We'll do it here.  Now."  She laughed, a dry rasp devoid of amusement.  "Who knows?  It might save us a trip back down to the car if you decide to go drop me off at my place afterward."

"Not goin' to happen."

"You can't say that.  You have no idea what I'm capable of, Spike.  You have no idea what I'm about to tell you."

"I know it's not goin' to change a thing about how I feel."  Twisting his body to face her head-on, Spike draped his arm over the back of the seat as he got more comfortable.  "Save us both the melodrama and just get on with it, Buffy."  His choice of words was specifically harsh, somehow knowing that his urge to cradle her in his arms and stroke away the fears before they tumbled from her mouth would only push her further away in her current state of mind.  So he fought against what he wanted to do and instead affected the distance he knew she needed in order to get whatever was eating her up off her chest.

Slowly, haltingly, she took a deep, ragged breath.  "It probably all started when I was fifteen," she began, and he felt himself already swirling in the whirlpool of her tale.  "Dad was gone, and it was just Mom, and Dawn, and me.  That was when I met Scott, remember?  And he brought a little bit of order to my life, because everything at home pretty much was awful."

"I remember…"  Keeping his tone low, so as not to scare her away.  He could practically smell the worry emanating from her skin, and battled with the itch to just say fuck it and tell her not to bother with the story.  It wasn't worth it seeing her like this.

"I got…I suppose wild isn't the wrong word for it.  Doing things I shouldn't.  Shoplifting.  Breaking curfew.  Taking about any dare anyone threw even vaguely in my direction.  Looking back on it now, part of me wonders if I had some kind of death wish with the stunts I pulled.  I don't know.  But I didn't stop.  Nothing phased me.  And eventually, my mom caught on to what was happening, and at the end of my junior year, we had this huge blowout.  She and Scott ganged up on me to try and get me to see some kind of reason.  Only…it didn't go the way they hoped.  When Mom gave me her ultimatum---."

"And what was that?"

"Get my act together or get out of her house."  The dance had started between her fingers again, fluttering and smoothing her skirt and doing everything but settling down.  Though his eyes were intent on her, her gaze was averted, locked on the memories of her past instead of the black interior of the car.

"You left."  It was the most natural conclusion, and knowing what he did of how headstrong Buffy was now, Spike could only imagine how being a teenager would've blown that up a hundredfold.

"I spent the summer waitressing in Los Angeles," Buffy admitted.  "I didn't even go by my real name.  I told everyone I was Anne."  Her laugh took him by surprise.  "You know, nobody there even questioned me.  You're the first person I used that moniker on to ever not believe me.  Why is that?"  The last was directed at him, and he let his body relax, his hand dropping to her shoulder to begin massaging the tension it found there, as he smiled softly back at her.

"Because you can't lie to me," Spike said.  "Because you and me…we know too much about the other, about…what's goin' on inside our heads and inside our hearts to try and pull the wool over our eyes.  It's not possible.  It goes against our blood."

She nodded, and he could see that she believed every word of it.  "That summer, it was almost too easy to fool everyone.  And life was better for awhile.  I just had to concentrate on getting through the day to day.  Get up, go to work, get my pay, go home.  It was what I needed, I think.  Then, this guy overheard me singing one day and started putting the bug in my ear about doing it professionally, and I thought…yeah.  That would be good.  I can finish school, and start getting some practice around Sunnydale at the same time."

He had to fight to maintain his composure.  "This guy…was that Wilkins?" he asked, his voice tight.

Buffy shook her head.  "I didn't meet Angel until after I went back.  I told you that.  No, it was some slimeball named Parker.  He was probably only telling me that because he was interested in me, but it worked.  It got me thinking about it and when the end of the summer came around, I went back home."

While this was all good and illuminating, and hearing stories about a younger Buffy only confirmed for the blond that he'd been right about her all along, Spike was unsure what her point was in telling this.  So far, nothing she'd said was remotely terrible, or explanatory of her dislike for cops.  But he held his tongue, waiting for her to continue.

"You already know about senior year.  I started singing.  Scott and I…"  She stopped, taking a deep breath before going on.  "And then the car accident.  Mom and I were doing a lot better before then, getting along and stuff.  But when I went back to singing, it was just like it was before I'd left for LA.  The fighting.  The screaming.  And poor Dawnie kept getting caught in the middle.  Leaving for LA was a relief in the end."

"With Angel."  God, how he hated even having to say the wanker's name.

"It wasn't like that," she insisted.  "How many times do I have to tell you we didn't start seeing each other in a romantic way until after I came to New York?"  She fell silent again, her momentary anger receding into a somnolence that darkened her face.  When she spoke again, her voice was deliberately blank, and for the first time, Spike felt a chill creep through his veins.

"But he was there, just like he always had been.  He was the only one who stood by me, no matter what.  Stood _up_ for me, with everyone.  With my mom.  With the club owners.  With anyone who tried to get in my way.  He got me my first job in LA.  He made sure I didn't get fired from my second when I got laryngitis and needed a week off to recuperate.  _He_ did that.  Angel.  Because he cared about me, so think what you want to, Spike, but it's not going to change the past.  It can't."

He knew his eyes were shaded from hers by the ebony blanket of the night, but he doubted Buffy would see the thoughts that were lurking there even if she could.  This was her blind spot.  Sure, he could see why she'd choose to view her history like that, but he could also see it from Wilkins' perspective, how the bastard had deliberately positioned her on a pedestal and done everything he could to keep everyone else from knocking her off of it.  Not that Buffy wasn't worth adoration, far from it.  But she was just a woman, who made mistakes, and no amount of worship or money or threatening would turn her into anything else.  It was certainly enough for Spike; he just wondered why it wasn't for Angel.

"So…was it because of the family then?" he posited tentatively.  "That why you're so skittish around the coppers?"

Buffy shook her head.  "Angel did everything he could to try and keep me away from his business dealings," she said.  Her voice was still distant and empty, like she had to further herself away from the facts in order to convey them without breaking down.  "Everything else is because of me.  Just me."  She sighed and rubbed wearily at her eyes.  "Mom and I stopped talking for awhile.  The only way I kept track of what was going on back in Sunnydale was through Dawn's letters.  After I'd been in LA for about a year, Dawn started complaining about not having enough money for school things and when I pressed her on it, she fessed up that Mom's gallery was losing money."

He began to drown in the sound of her voice as she regaled him with the tales of just what she'd done in order to help her mother out.  Guilt for leaving had driven her to seek out Angel's acquaintances---behind his back---and taking on jobs that would allow her quick cash.  Messenger stuff, mostly.  Portering packages she didn't ask to be identified.  Making odd phone calls in the middle of the night with messages she didn't understand.  

"The money was good," she whispered.  "And nobody ever questioned me.  Beyond reproach, that was me.  Too busy singing my little heart out to be suspected of anything wrong."  When she lifted her eyes, the tears that had been slipping silently down her cheeks glistened in the illumination from the streetlamp, but she did nothing to wipe them away.  "Every single cent went to Mom," she said, her voice suddenly fierce.  "I didn't keep any of it."

"I believe you."  

Those three little words made her shoulders crumple, and this time, Spike didn't hesitate to slide across the leather to scoop her into his arms.  Under his breath, he murmured the softest words he could summon, stroking her hair as her thin body trembled against him, each sob deeper than the one previous.  Buffy's fingers clawed into his neck, trying to pull him even closer, and she wept the release she'd been seeking ever since starting her story.

"Not even Angel said that to me after," she said quietly as her crying eased.  "He'd look at me and I'd just know he was thinking I was in it for myself, too.  That part of me wanted what the money offered.  I could never get him to understand."

"It's 'cause he doesn't know you," Spike replied.  His lips brushed across her temple.  "It's not in you for that."

The breath that shook her lungs vibrated through him.  "You must think I'm a big crybaby," Buffy joked harshly.

"Not in the slightest," he argued, and smiled for the first time since she'd began.  "So…what happened?  You said something about…after."

"I messed up."  Her voice was back to being small again, only now it was muffled against his shirt.  He could feel the damp heat of her breathing, the soft in and out warming his flesh, and coiled inwardly in response to what he knew was coming.  "I got asked to slip a Mickey Finn in some guy's drink and I said no.  I didn't get into it to hurt anyone; I just wanted to make some extra moolah.  Then, when they tried putting the screws on me, I made some half-assed threat about going to Angel. That just made them laugh at me.  Told me…if I didn't do it, they'd make me wish I did."

His grip tightened.  How many times had he used those same words on one of his stoolies back in the day? Spike wondered.  Thinking of the consequences of how they might affect them had never occurred to him then.  Business, pure and simple.  And Buffy had been caught up in her own mini version of it.  He already knew what was coming.  He just needed to hear it from her own lips.

"I thought I was safe when nothing happened for a few days," she said softly.  The tears were gone now, deadened by the pain.  "And I heard someone else offed the guy so I figured I was officially off the hook.  But then…I got a note.  I don't know who from.  And they said my family wasn't safe.  That…they would pay."

The fire.  Oh god.  But not even squeezing his eyes shut could block out the images her words brought before his mind's eye.

_Buffy racing away from __Los Angeles__ to try and stop whatever was going to happen, breaking every speed limit along the way._

_Her childhood home standing empty when she'd thrown open the door, her voice echoing up and down the stairs._

_Back in the car to go to the gallery, only to see the orange and red flames already licking their way up the walls through the windows._

_Choking and sweating and screaming through the smoke that rolled through the door when she opened it, stumbling in the dark because the electricity was out,  to find her mother and sister bound and unconscious in the back room._

_Fingers bleeding as she tried to work the rope that held them, her eyes burning, the heat scorching her skin._

_And then the gunshot that had ripped into her lower back, knocking her unconscious and stopping her from getting them free._

"Angel's the one who got me out of there," she said, but before Spike could ask the question of how, she added, "He found my note and followed me down.  Except…he didn't get there in time to save Mom and Dawn.  They told me later that I was lucky to be alive, but…"  Her voice broke, the tears resuming their flow.  "They died because of me.  And even when I was in the hospital, and they wouldn't let me out to go to the funerals, I knew I had to get out of California.  I couldn't face what I'd done to them.  Because it was all my fault.  They'd be here today if it wasn't for me."

He didn't say a word, just held her close, pressing his cheek to the top of her head as his fingers tangled through the loose locks of her hair.  No wonder she was so loyal to the prat.  He'd bloody well saved her life.  Not that Spike didn't question just how advantageous it was that he just _happened_ to come across the note at _just_ the right time, but now was not the proper place for those kind of thoughts.

"The cops wouldn't leave me alone," Buffy was saying, and he had to force himself to concentrate again, focus on her voice while she finished out the remembrance.  "Someone sang about some of the dealings I had in Los Angeles, and with the fire labelled as arson and all the fights everyone in town knew me and Mom had, plus the fact that I was at the gallery when they knew I lived out of town…I was their prime suspect, even if I did get shot.  I could hear the nurses and orderlies and doctors all talking about me when they thought I couldn't hear.  Even when Angel stepped up to the plate and had the Wilkins' lawyers come in to get my name cleared, they didn't stop whispering.  And they were right.  I killed her.  I killed both of them."

"No, you didn't," Spike reassured.  "You can't be beating yourself up for gettin' in with the wrong crowd.  Those kind of people…they're unpredictable.  Take it from the horse's mouth.  You had no way of knowing---."  He cut himself off when she pulled away to look up at him, and knew nothing more he could say would take the guilt away, as much as he wanted to.  Time for another tack, he decided.

"You said they never caught the guy who shot you," he prompted.

Buffy shook her head.  "Even when I went back to Los Angeles, complete with police supervision which is _not_ fun, let me tell you, nothing ever showed up.  As far as the cops are concerned, it's still an open case.  But it was Angel's boys who I'd been working for, which means it had to be someone inside the family who did it, or someone connected to it.  So, when Angel suggested I move to New York, I figured it was my last shot.  I could learn more about the family and take out who did this.  Who wrecked my life so badly.  Other than me, of course."

And it all made perfect sense to him now.  The self-loathing the beautiful blonde carried around.  Her faith in Angel.  The reason she'd been willing to shackle herself into a loveless marriage.  And why she'd been so frightened of him learning the truth.

Gently, Spike put his hands on her shoulders, looking at her with eyes he knew weren't capable of hiding the truth from her.  "You don't have to face this alone any more," he murmured.  "Whatever it takes, I'll help you get this mess sorted.  We can get Ripper and Red working on it, as soon as this Mayor business is wrapped up, and your heart can finally get some peace.  You deserve it, luv.  And no amount of storytelling's goin' to change my mind about that."

"So…you don't hate me…knowing the truth?"

She'd so clearly expected it; disbelief etched across features even clearer than if it had been daylight.  "Can't," he said with a small grin.  "Not physically possible."  Reaching past her, he pushed open the car door.  "Now get your sweet caboose upstairs.  I plan on using what time I've got before dawn to show you just how physically impossible it is."

She surprised him by leaning forward, pressing her lips to his before sliding out of the seat.  "Thank you," she breathed, and he caught the smile of gratitude she flashed him before turning toward the building.

Nothing to be thankful for, he thought as he climbed out of the car.  Can't very well give up on the woman I love, now can I?

*************

He slipped silently from his suite and tapped on the door opposite, glancing back at his own door while he waited for a response.  Lilah was still out for the count; apparently, she rated sleep higher than any feelings of responsibility toward getting this Rook mess sorted out.  It was all well and good for Lindsey, though; this new wrinkle of Faith showing up was one he wanted to keep away from his unwanted partner in crime.  Somehow, he had a feeling his new guest was about to make his life even more difficult.

Her voice was quieter than he expected, and he pushed open the door to see her lying down on the couch.  "Everything's all fixed," he said, shutting out any possibility of interruption and crossing to stand before her.  "I've got you booked in with the front desk, so if you find you need anything, just give them a call.  They'll charge everything back to my account."

"Thanks."  Faith grimaced as she tried to sit up, her body sore from the exertion.  Though her face still sported the purple and blue and blossoming green, she had cleaned up the blood and tried to make herself more presentable.  In a way, it worked against her.  Instead of reaching her usual sexy appearance, her care had only served to accentuate the damage that had been done, and Lindsey felt his sympathy for the whore rise in his throat.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me who did this to you," he said, perching himself on the arm of the couch.  "This kind of action really warrants going to the police."

The shake of her head was vehement, causing another moue of pain to wrinkle her nose.  "Coppers are useless in this," she said.  "I just need some place to lay low until I can get out of town.  I've had enough of this shit."

"What about money?"

She flashed him a brilliant smile, oddly gruesome in the beauty of her features.  "Getting dough's never a problem for me, loverboy," she taunted.  "It may not be a lot, but it'll do to get me out this town.  I just can't…"  And the smile faded, replaced by an aching anger deep within her doe eyes.  

He waited as she lowered her head, reluctant for him to see her weakness, but when her hand snaked out to touch his thigh, Lindsey froze, wondering just what it was she was thinking.

"Should probably thank you the right way," she purred, and if he hadn't known about her injuries, he never would've guessed that she was in any sort of pain.  Seduction oozed from her body as her hand slid upward, nails raking across his flesh through his trousers.

"Don't," he said, grabbing her hand before it could reach his crotch.  He held it until she looked up, confusion now behind the mottling.  "I'm not looking for any sort of payment," he explained.

Faith shrugged.  "Just because you're not looking, don't mean you don't deserve a little something for your efforts," she argued.

He refused to let her hand go, knowing where it would end up if he did.  "If you think I need to be paid to make sure some creep doesn't hit you again," he said tightly, "you don't know very much about me."

Slowly, Lindsey released his grip, maintaining his position as she pulled away.  Brown eyes met blue, and he waited to see what her next move was going to be, her face inscrutable beneath the swelling.

"Angel Wilkins," Faith finally said softly.  "That's who did this to me.  Staking his claim on his new territory, you might say."  She sighed heavily and leaned back into the couch, her eyes closed.  "So you see why I can't go to the fuzz."

Lindsey nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him.  It was taking all his control to maintain a stoic front in light of her naming her assailant, but he didn't get to where he was in Wolfram and Hart for buckling under a surprise.  "You should get some sleep," he said instead, rising to his feet.  "Leave a message with the front desk if you need me for anything.  I'd rather my associates didn't know you were here.  You're…safer that way."

He didn't hang around for her response, letting himself out just as quietly as he'd let himself in.  Once out of her presence, though, he sagged against the doorframe.

Angel Wilkins.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Not that he'd actually dealt with the other man during this whole debacle---Wood and his sideman Trick had been his contacts throughout each stage of the arrangements---but Lindsey knew enough from research to know that that was one man he didn't want to be crossing.

And now he was hiding the mobster's whore in the room right across from his.

Talk about a conflict of interest.  There was absolutely no way this could turn out good for him.  No way at all.

To be continued in Chapter 27: This Thing of Ours…


	27. This Thing of Ours

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Lindsey has agreed to shelter Faith but then found out Angel was the one she was hiding from, and Buffy has told Spike of her past and why she feels she has to trust Angel…

*************

He was silent as he led her up to the apartment, her hand trapped in his as if he feared by letting her go, she would disappear into the night like some phantom of his imagination.  Did she feel better having told him the whole story? Buffy mused.  Yes and no and a whole big pile of maybe.  

Yes, because now there were no more secrets.  Even knowing everything about California, about the kind of person she was, Spike remained steadfast, refusing to let her run away, caring about her regardless of the deeds of her past.  _You don't have to face this alone any more_, he'd said.  It was all she'd ever really wanted, of course.  Not to have bear the burden entirely on her own shoulders.  Up until this point in her life, she'd never had anyone who she trusted enough to share it with, not anyone who wanted to help, at least.  She'd tried with Angel, but he'd been so dismissive of the whole thing, trying to make her forget and brushing her words away like an annoying gnat every time it got brought up, that she'd resolved herself to being alone with this.  And now she didn't have to be.

But that was part of why she didn't feel any better.  Or rather, _he was part of it.  She wasn't blind; she knew Angel's business dealings meant he was inured to the seedier aspects of life.  But he'd only ever been good to her, done everything in his power to make her happy.  How could she even begin to accept the fact that he could be behind the hit on his own father?  He'd never seemed that interested in the family business, only in what it could provide him.  Killing Mr. Wilkins didn't make sense to her._

And then there was Wesley.  Good, reliable, two-faced Wesley, who'd fooled her into not realizing he was a cop.  _Agent, she corrected.  Investigating the family and trying to take away Buffy's world in doing so.  Except, it wasn't really her world anymore.  Spike was.  And he wasn't after _her_, so why couldn't she just let go of the fact that he was part of a cadre that represented pain and anger and had made her life miserable when she was at her lowest?  Spike trusted him.  Just as she had once trusted him.  But she wasn't sure she could go back to that place any time soon._

She watched as Spike fumbled one-handed with the lock on the door, finally pushing it open and tugging her gently inside.  The murk of the apartment was broken by the orange and silver light peeping around the curtains at the window, but as he reached to flip the switch, Buffy stopped his hand, slim fingers wrapping around the power of his.

"Don't," she said quietly.  His eyes gleamed when he looked down at her, the whites capturing the scattered light.  "Not yet."

"What's wrong, luv?" he murmured.  He turned to face her, loosing his hand to push back the hair that fell against her cheek.  "We're safe here.  But if you want me to scope---."

"Wesley said Giles and Xander were trying to get confirmation about…Angel," she said.  "What exactly did he mean?"

Spike exhaled slowly, his lashes lowering before rising again so that his eyes could burn into hers.  "They went to talk to some chippy Wilkins introduced Harris to the other night," he said evasively.  "They thought she might be able to answer a few questions."

Alarm buzzed down her spine.  "You sent them to Darla's?" she asked, incredulous.  "What?  Are you _that_ jingle-brained?  She's going to gum everything up if you guys are right."

His surprise was just as strong as hers, and his hand loosened, falling to his side as he frowned.  "How in hell do you know about Darla?"

"You don't think I don't know about my fiance's exes?"

"Not when she's a first class madam."

"Ha.  First class, my ass.  Darla makes Drusilla look like the Queen of England."  She shook her head.  "What were you thinking?" she repeated

"Let me get this straight."  Before she could stop him, his hand reached out and flicked the switch, making her blink as her eyes adjusted to sudden brightness.  "You know your git of a fiancé is sleeping around on the side with a pro skirt who's probably shagged half of Manhattan, and you were goin' to marry him _anyway_?  If you'd sussed on to the fact that he was bunking with her, why is the rest of this so hard for you to believe?"

"I didn't know until a few months ago, and that only happened because Faith told me.  She said she didn't like me being made a fool of and thought I should be put wise to what he was doing."  Buffy's head dropped, exhaustion weighing her shoulders.  "It's not like I didn't have my own motives for marrying him either, remember," she said, her voice low.  "I just…I figured he'd stop after the wedding."

She was tired of thinking about it, about conflicting questions bombarding her brain in search of answers she didn't know she could give, and now, with Spike's disappointment in her about putting up with Darla, the only thing she wanted was to just run away.  Not like that ever really solved anything, but…

His hands came to her shoulders, pulling her against him so that he could wrap his arms around her back.  "Didn't mean to sound like such a judgmental prat," he murmured into her hair.  "It's been a rough night for you.  I shouldn't be adding to your confusion by questioning you."  She felt him nuzzling the top of her head with his cheek, heard the sound of his breathing as he inhaled the scent of her shampoo.  "Don't be worryin' about Ripper and Harris," he added.  "They know how to take care of themselves.  And we've got some cards to play that we think that Darla might like a tad more than she likes Wilkins."

His fingers were doing that tracing thing down her spine again, finding the hollow of her bones and pressing just firmly enough to let her know that he was there.  Buffy's eyes fluttered closed.  "I need to do some thinking," she whispered.  

For a moment, she wasn't sure he heard her, his movements never hesitating, his breathing never changing.  And then…

"Oh?"  Neutral.  Guarded.  "Don't tell me after everything…"  Spike stopped then, and she felt his muscles tense as he prepared to pull away.  "I told you, nothin's changed for me.  I meant that.  But…if you need…to be alone tonight---."

"I need a shower," Buffy said before he could move.  She straightened then, and looked up into his face, allowing her arms to lift and drape over his shoulders.  "A shower for one.  As hot as I can stand it.  It helps me clear my head."  Tremulous fingers outlined the razor blade of his cheekbone, and she swallowed hard.  "I don't want to ever be alone again."

He didn't reply, just looked down at her with midnight eyes that made her want to sink into his flesh, and then lowered his head so that his lips brushed tenderly against hers.  "I'll be here when you get out," he promised as he pulled away, and gave her a gentle push toward the bathroom, his hand slipping to her bottom as she turned.

The smile she shot him was a mixture of gratitude and want, but she kept her feet moving, aiming for the solitary steam that would hopefully filter her thoughts enough for her to get a grip on them.  I don't know what lucky star brought Spike to me, she thought as she slipped inside the bath.  But I'm going to have to remember to thank it as soon as I see the sky again.

*************

He moved around the bedroom, lighting the candles he'd managed to scrounge from the kitchen, his chest silvery pale in the moonlight that flowed through the open window.  The sound of the shower filtering from the other room leant the air a domesticity Spike had been without for what seemed like an eternity, and he smiled as he caught the faint note of a song underneath its rhythm.

She was singing.  That had to be a good sign.

For a moment there, when she'd said she needed to think, he had been thrust back to that awful night previous, when the mere mention of Angel's name had been enough to devour his self-worth.  But, if she'd asked, he would've let her go.  He would've hated every second of it, and kicked himself black and blue for being such a ponce, but if she'd asked, there was no way he could've said no.  

Head over heels.  Time for him to admit it, once and for all.  In love with Buffy Summers, and ready to give her the world if she wanted it.

And he was going to tell her before the night was through.  No way could he keep this kind of information to himself, not when he'd only just discovered it himself.  He doubted she would run, not after everything she had said, but more than anything else, Spike wanted her to see just what a man in love with her looked like.  

Because what Angel Wilkins felt for her wasn't love.  It was obsession.  Spike had heard enough of her story to be certain of that.

The ringing of the telephone shattered his reverie, and he jogged out to the living room to pick it up.

"I hope you're sitting down," Ripper said in lieu of a greeting.

Spike frowned.  "Don't tell me after everything we were wrong," he said.  Though he could still hear Buffy singing in the bathroom, he kept his voice low.

"We're not wrong," came the reply, but before the flare of righteous satisfaction could burn too brightly in Spike's gut, he added, "But we weren't completely right, either."

"What's that?"

"Wilkins has a partner.  One the skirt doesn't know, not that she would've told us anyway.  But that means we have two potential targets now.  Taking out Wilkins isn't enough at this point."

It is for me, Spike thought grimly, but kept silent, his mind working over the implications of Ripper's words.  "The lawyer'll know," he finally said.  "I'll get the name out of him if I have to rip his tongue out to do it."

Silence.  "So, we're proceeding with our plans?"

"As scheduled.  Call Red and tell her to get a good night's kip.  We're goin' to need everyone in top form.  I don't want this to be a trip for biscuits tomorrow."

"Right."  Another pause, this one longer.  Finally, he heard him clear his throat.  "How did…Miss Summers take the news?" Ripper asked cautiously.

Spike sighed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.  "As well as can be expected, considering she feels like she owes the prat her life."  He hesitated before saying the next, and then decided to hell with it.  "She's got a beef about us trusting Wesley, though."

The snort of disgust was unmistakable through the phone line.  "I believe I told you the same thing."

"And I told her the same thing I told you, Rip.  I'm goin' with my gut on this one.  We're goin' to trust him until he gives me a reason not to."

"And lying isn't a good enough reason, apparently."

"I'm not doin' this again," Spike warned.  "He's saved your skin just as much as he's saved mine.  And Red's soft on him, which means he's as good as family in my book."

"Willow doesn't understand the ramifications---."

He was shaking his head even before he heard her name.  Resorting to his big words was Ripper's last defense.  "Red understands just fine," he interrupted.  "And I'm sorry she didn't pick you, but you've got to start thinkin' with your other head here---."

"Why?  You didn't when it came to Miss Summers."

His knuckles were white around the receiver.  He had to give the old man credit for knowing exactly where to make it hurt, but the desire to snap back at him was overwhelming.  It took biting his tongue until his mouth filled with the coppery heat of his own blood to stop the retort from spilling from his lips.  Shouldn't have brought it up, he thought irritably.  Should've just let the matter drop.

Out loud, he said, "Have I ever failed you, Rupert?"  Low, even, and using his friend's given name…that was the best way he could think of to convey just how serious he was about this.  "Have I ever done _anything that would've put you, or Red, or Harris, in harm's way?"_

The other Englishman sighed, and Spike could just imagine him worrying the lenses of his glasses on the other end of the line.  "No," he finally conceded.

"I swore I'd get you two out of this mess when we got into it," he continued.  "And I'm not about to bugger it up now.  We're this close to sorting it all out.  We turn on each other now, we go up in flames, and trust me, the last thing I want right now is to be a big pile of dust."

"I don't want that, either."

"So, we're just goin' to go ahead with the arrangements like we planned, and we're goin' to put this petty shit behind us, right?  Because you know I'll gag and tie you up myself if you muck this up at this point."  The last was said in jest, but the warning was still there.  And Rupert Giles was far from a stupid man.

"Promise me that I get to be the first one to sock it to him if Wesley chisels us or hurts Willow."

Spike grinned.  "You have my word."

************

She was supposed to be sleeping.  That's what the instruction from Spike had been.  But no matter what she did, Willow couldn't keep her lids shut, feeling them drift open for the umpteenth time since she'd laid down to stare up at the ceiling she couldn't really see anyway.

Wesley loved her.  He'd practically gotten down on bended knee to profess it.  He was giving everything he knew up just for the possibility that it might one day be requited.  Did she believe him?  Her skin flushed in remembrance of his eyes as he'd said it to her, and she smiled into the darkness.  Of course she did.  She'd have to be blind not to.  

But he'd also lied to her.  OK, so maybe he had a point about it being about his job and not about him, but that didn't negate the truth that he'd deceived all of them.  People she cared about.  People who were more her family than her own parents.  She was closer to Giles than her own dad, and Xander and Spike were the brothers she'd never had.

Brothers who, after the initial fighting was over, seemed to have no problems trusting Wesley.

Crap.

With a sigh, she sat up in the bed and stared at the closed door that led to the rest of the hotel suite.  He'd insisted she take the bedroom while he slept on the couch.  He hadn't even risked perturbing her friends further by answering the phone when Xander called with the news of Darla.  Instead, he left it to her, and maintained his silence---and distance---while she scribbled down a few notes.  Only when she'd relayed the messages had he said anything, and then it was only to concur with Spike's assessment of the situation.

For being the bad guy in this, he sure was acting the part of the gentleman.

Maybe some warm milk will help me sleep, Willow reasoned, swinging her legs to the floor and sliding her feet into her slippers.  Grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed, she tiptoed to the door, twisting the knob as silently as she could before pulling it open to peek outside.

Not surprisingly, Wesley was still awake as well, stretched out on the couch with only the lamp on the end table on for illumination.  A book was open in his hands, his glasses firmly in place as he read, but as soon as he heard the door open, he looked up from the page.

"Are you all right?" he immediately queried.

"Can't sleep," she said.  She remained rooted, watching him as her fingers played with the tie of her robe.  "Whatcha reading?"

"Remarque's _The Road Back_," he replied, holding it up so that she could see the cover.  "In the original German."

Willow grimaced.  "Not exactly light bedtime reading," she commented.  She took a step closer.  "I think I cried for a week after I read it."

His small smile was amused.  "It's the only non-English book I grabbed from my flat when we left," he explained.  "I thought having to do the translation would tire me sufficiently to rest."

Another step.  "Are you in pain?  Is that why you can't sleep?"

"No, I'm fine."

"It's the couch, isn't it?  It's too uncomfortable because you're so tall."  Yet another step.

"Really, I'm fine.  Just…too much on my mind, I suppose.  To be expected, don't you think?"  Picking up the bookmark that rested on his lap, Wesley marked his page and set the text aside, sitting up against the arm of the couch.  "Did you wish to talk some more?"

Willow shook her head.  Why wasn't she getting her milk? she wondered.  Why did he only have to look at her and she felt like nothing else in the world mattered?

"You should go and rest," he was saying, and she jerked herself from her wandering thoughts.  "Tomorrow is going to be another stressful day."

"Anything after today is going to be cake," she joked, but was met only with his downcast eyes, as if she'd just scolded him yet again for the events of the night.  Taking a deep breath, she marched forward and stood before him, holding her hand out.  "You need to sleep, too," she said.  "And it's stupid for you to do it out here when there's a perfectly good bed in the other room."

He was just as surprised at her invitation as she was, looking up at her with widened eyes.  Nothing was going to happen, she reasoned, and she wasn't fooling herself anyway.  She _wanted him there.  It didn't seem right that he wasn't._

"Just to sleep," she reiterated.  "It's a…big bed, and since we _both need to be all alert tomorrow, there's no reason…"  Her voice trailed away when his fingers curled around hers, but she swallowed down the lump in her throat when he remained seated on the sofa._

"Don't," Wesley said gently.  "You asked for time, and I said I'd respect that.  Sharing a bed tonight is hardly going to help you clear your head."

"Maybe not, but it'll help both of us get some shut-eye."  Her teeth caught her lip and, after a quick glance at the cushions at his side, surprised him by sitting down, tucking her feet underneath her as she leaned tentatively against his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he asked.  It didn't stop him from sliding his arm around her, though, tucking her into his side as she rested her cheek against his chest.

Willow sighed, her eyes flickering closed as she breathed in the smell of his cologne.  It mingled with the distant smell of the antiseptic that had been used on his cuts, and she felt a twinge of guilt at the pain he'd incurred at Giles' hands.  "I've figured it out," she said, her muscles all of a sudden weary in satisfaction.  I should've done this an hour ago, she thought.  Sometimes I'm just too stubborn for my own good.  "It's your fault.  You set a precedent.  If I hadn't slept so well last night, I wouldn't be having so many problems tonight.  So, if you're going to be a poophead and stay out here, then I don't really have a choice, now do I?"

He didn't respond, but began gently massaging her arm as she felt sleep begin to overtake her.  Definitely should've done this earlier, she thought as she drifted off.  One of these days, I'm going to realize that Spike is always right…

*************

"I want him dead!"  The door crashed into the wall as Angel shoved it open, a shower of plaster raining down on his shoulder as he glared at the other men in the room.

From behind the desk, Wood leaned back in his chair, eyes cold as they settled on his visitor.  "What the hell are you doing here?  We had an agreement."

"What's the game with Rook?" Angel demanded, crossing the distance between them, shoving Trick out of his way when the smaller man attempted to intervene.

Wood's jaw tightened.  "The cops still haven't caught him," he replied.  "But they're working on it."

"Not fast enough.  I want to change the plan."

"Seems like you've changed it already.  I thought we agreed it was best not to risk being seen together."

Angel collapsed into the chair in front of the desk, legs sprawling.  "That was before that bastard started messing up my life."

"Oh?"  Wood's brow quirked.  "You got what you wanted, didn't you?  The business is all yours now.  I'd think you'd be sitting pretty at this point.  _I'm_ the one who should be complaining.  I haven't even gotten the territory you promised yet."

"Keep your pants on.  It'll come, just like we arranged.  But this business with Rook…are you telling me you'd have a problem with killing him instead of putting him behind bars?"

"A plan is a plan---."

"OK, let me put it this way then."  Angel's eyes glinted in barely controlled fury.  "You want the red district, you're going to give me Rook's head on a platter, capisce?  That's the _new plan."_

To be continued in Chapter 28: A Crook's Romance…


	28. A Crook's Romance

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  An exhausted Buffy and Spike are readying to sleep before the plans for Lindsey the following day…

*************

She was in the bathroom far longer than she'd anticipated, reluctant to leave the haven of the pelting shower as it pounded into her shoulders, the rigidity binding her muscles finally relaxing into a soporific ooze that carried with it the promise of a good night's rest.  This was one of those moments where she found herself yearning for a blank slate, for someone to come along and magically whisk away all the conflicting elements of her life to allow her to start anew.  As if that could really happen, she thought ruefully, but still, it would be nice.

Like Angel.  Where only a week earlier, he had seemed like the one bastion in her existence that made sense, now he was the source of unending uncertainties, a confluence of what he seemed to be and what he actually was melding together to blind her in confusion.  Could Spike and the others be right?  With Mr. Wilkins gone, Angel _did_ inherit the entire family's holdings, but he'd never seemed interested in it before.  Yet, deceit wasn't exactly that far from his book, not with his continued sneaking around with Darla that he thought she knew nothing about.

And then there was Wesley.  That one gave her a headache.  He wasn't supposed to be a cop.  Cops in Buffy's book were bad, and he'd always been a right gee.  How could she trust him knowing that he'd lied to her?

But she trusted Spike.  And he was far more dangerous than anyone else Buffy had ever met.  Did that make her a hypocrite?  Did that make her…less?

She didn't know.  The only answer she had was that she couldn't go on with the deceit any longer.  Once the funeral was out of the way, she was giving Angel his ring back and calling the whole thing off, the way she should've done the first time she'd realized just how deeply Spike had wormed his way into her heart.  She didn't want to be the type of woman who led men around by their balls, and she owed it to Spike to be honest about his presence in her life.  Well, as honest as she could be considering he was still wanted by the police.

Wrapping the towel tightly around her torso, she pushed her damp hair away from her forehead as she pushed open the bathroom door, the steam curling around her body to escape before her into the hallway.  The lights in the rest of the apartment were out, and she paused to let her eyes adjust to the lessened illumination, squinting into the darkness as she debated where Spike would be.

"Come to bed," he called out as if he'd been reading her mind.

Buffy smiled.  Why didn't his behavior surprise her?

The bedroom, however, did.  Though he hadn't turned on the overhead light, Spike had managed to light enough candles around the room to affect an approximate facsimile, lending the small room a golden ambience that warmed her more than the terry did around her body.  She hesitated in the entrance, eyes shining as she watched him sitting at the foot of the bed.

"You are a fire hazard waiting to happen, mister," she teased.

"So call me a sucker for a spot of romance," he shot back, his lips twisted into his own smile.  His eyes seemed almost amber in the flickering flames, and his chest was eerily pale as he stood.  "You…feelin' better?"

She could tell he hated that he even had to ask, and the twinge of guilt that accompanied that realization prompted her to step forward, to close the gap between them.  "Much.  Thank you."

It was his turn to lessen the distance, long strides inexplicably shortened by his unforeseen reserve.  "I shouldn't have said those things, you know.  About…him, and that Hoyle bird.  It's not my place.  Sorry for that."

"Stop apologizing.  You didn't do anything wrong.  You couldn't have known."  Her eyes fell to the floor, unable to keep looking at him.  "I should've been upfront with you from the start.  None of this---."

His fingers on her mouth cut her off, but they only lingered in that position long enough for her to fall silent.  As soon as the room fell into peace around them, he was tracing the outline of her lower lip, making love to it with merely the pad of his thumb.  "Think there's been enough words said tonight," Spike murmured.  "The only ones that haven't been said that I've got any interest in is…I love you, Buffy."

She looked up then, his admission jolting her from the luxuriant trance his touch created in her head.  Green eyes scanned the solemn blue ones that gazed down at her, and she felt her throat begin to constrict.  "What?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The corner of his mouth lifted.  "You heard me, you silly bint," he teased.  His long fingers slid along her jaw to cup the side of her face, threading through the wet strands of her hair that clung there.  "Said I love you."

"But…how?"  She blinked rapidly as if that would make it make more sense.  "It's so soon.  How?"

Spike shrugged.  "Don't know, don't care.  Just know that I do."  He didn't seem to be waiting to hear it back, instead letting his hand slide to her hair as his eyes followed the path.  "C'mere," he said, dropping to take her hand in his.

She followed him to the edge of the bed, allowing him to push her down to sit on the corner of the mattress, and watched as he picked up her brush from where she'd left her toiletries sitting on the dresser.  "What're you going to do?" she asked.

He didn't answer, just crossed back to her side and sat down behind her.  His weight made the bed sag, forcing Buffy to tilt her body slightly forward in order to compensate, and when she felt the familiar pull of the brush in her hair, her eyelids drifted shut.  One stroke, two, and she could feel his breath, warm and even, against her bare shoulders as he untangled the knots he found with a gentle but firm hand.

"So beautiful," Spike murmured.  The rough edges of the brush scraped against the skin on her neck, sending tingles along the knobs of her spine.  "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, pet?"

"Only because you make me so," she replied without even thinking.

The brush was gone then, and his wide hands were grasping her shoulders, pulling her back against his bare chest with a delectable sigh.  "No," he said, but now his voice was rough.  "You keep sayin' that, and it's nonsense.  Stop it.  I don't know why it is you won't believe me."

The edge of the towel began to loosen within the circle of his arms, but the protection it was providing no longer seemed necessary to Buffy, not when their bodies were generating enough heat between the pair of them to forgo the terry completely.  Arguing with him was going to do no good, she knew, so she opted instead to change the subject.  Or rather, revert to an earlier one.

"You know what I _do_ believe?" she said softly.  "That no matter what, that whatever happens tomorrow with that shyster, and whatever happens when we get this business fixed about Mr. Wilkins, you and me are going to be on a plane, and we are going to get our keysters out to California, and we're going to be sickeningly happy.  I've decided this."

He was chuckling halfway through her speech, but at the last, he laughed out loud.  "Oh, you have, have you?" he taunted.  "Bossy little chit, aren't you?"

"Damn right I am."  She leaned her head back so that it rested in the curve between his shoulder and neck, nuzzling him with her now straightened hair.  "You think you're the only one who can throw around words like 'I love you?'"  Buffy surprised herself by feeling her voice hitch.  "Why would I throw away everything I know to go with you if I didn't feel it, too?"

It hadn't been what she'd been expecting to say, but as the words slipped from her tongue, Buffy knew them to be true, and wondered just why she hadn't thought of it before.  She felt him stiffen, his hands still, and then his mouth was just below her ear, hot and firm and oh so tender, sucking at the hollow just beneath it as if that was what he needed to keep his heart beating.

"Wasn't looking for you to say it," he breathed into her skin.  "Just needed to make sure you knew how I felt.  And I lied.  I _do_ know how."  Spike's hands tugged at the towel, pulling it away from her so that nothing separated her back from his front.  "Found the one who makes my world make sense, is all.  There's no magic in that.  How can I _not_ love you, Buffy Summers?"

She arched against him, a flood of heat rushing to the surface of her skin.  Not the time for words now, she knew.  There were other things she'd rather be doing with her mouth.  And she twisted to face him just to prove it.

Lithe fingers jumped to the hollows of his face, exploring and caressing the gold and black shadows as if it was the first time she'd ever seen him.  She let them slide into the mussed bleached curls, twining them around her fingers for a split second before falling to the whorls of his ears.  When they continued down, following the veins of his neck, Buffy watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed, glancing up just in time to see his tongue dart out and lick his lips.

It was too much to resist.  Her lips were on his in a flash, sucking and pulling and forcing them open as her tongue swept inside.

Why was it he tasted so good? she wondered as their arms wrapped around the other.  Heart pounding against heart, she could practically hear his pulse in her ears, its reverberations deepening the kiss until she felt like the world was spinning out of control around her.  And she never wanted it to stop, except when his mouth slid to the side, creating a wake of tiny kisses and nibbles down to the top of her breast, the thought of more and just what else of him could taste so good making her moan out loud.

Spike pushed her back onto the mattress, tugging the towel free from where it had twisted around her waist, and set to nibbling along her collarbone.  It didn't seem like his hands would ever stop moving, traveling independently of his mouth to stroke the curve of her waist, dip along the flat of her stomach to coast lower.  Buffy bit her lip, her legs spreading automatically, and he chuckled against her breast.

"Someone's a little eager, methinks."

"Spike…"  Grabbing his head, she pulled him back up so that their mouths were level, devouring him down in another kiss while she threw her leg over his hip and pinioned him to the mattress at her side.  He was still wearing his trousers, though every other part of him was bare, and she dropped her hands to work hurriedly at the waistband, almost pulling the button from its fastening as she yanked just a little too hard.

"Nope, no thinking about it.  Eager little beaver, you are."  His mirth rolled between them, and Spike broke apart just enough to help her finish the job, only releasing her fingers when she slid them beneath the fabric along the arch of his hip.  He rolled onto his back, allowing her the freedom to slide the offending garments to the floor.

She was back then, pressed into his side, her mouth at his ear.  "I want to taste you," she murmured.  "Please…"

She didn't wait for a response, just slid down his body with her mouth leading the way.  When it stopped at his hip, Buffy let her exploration expand to incorporate the rest of her fingers.  Holding him steady, she leaned in, and Spike bucked upward at the feather touch.

"Pet," he growled.  "You're goin' to be the death of me, you know that, don't you?"     Her responding giggle spread her breath in a hot burst, and that, the sound of her carefree laughter, warmed him higher than any attention she might serve his body.  

Truth be told, she had been hungering to taste him ever since that first night, since she'd first felt him spooned up behind her as he held her after their lovemaking.  Now, Buffy wondered why she'd waited so long, his moans of delight only spurring her on to explore even further.  

Around and around, up and down, rhythms that seemed unrelenting and endless, coaxing her to add her own, the reverberations in her cheeks being absorbed as she hummed under her breath.  And beneath it all, Spike's continuous litany, words broken with the occasional growl, cascading from his lips with the facile grace of a man airborne.

"Buffy…god, luv, just like…fuck…so sweet…love you…yes…love your mouth, pet…like that…so hot…yes…Buffy…love you so much…"

And on and on and on, until there was no more space for breathing in between his words, stringing together faster and faster as she sped up her pace.  She could feel him tightening, his muscles setting to release, and prepared herself for its aftermath, only to feel his hands dig into her shoulders, pulling her away with a jerky snatch.

She found herself looking into his eyes, black even within the golden light of the candles.  "What's wrong?" she asked, hoarse.  "Why'd you make me stop?"

His thumb brushed along her swollen lips.  "Because another few seconds of that gorgeous mouth of yours, and I would've come," he murmured.

Buffy smiled.  "I thought that was the point."

"Rather come inside you here," he said, and as if to accentuate his point, Spike's hand dipped between their bodies, two fingers sliding effortlessly inside.

Her gasp of pleasure made him smile, and he rolled her onto her back, his weight pressing her down into the mattress.  She could feel him against her hip, but he did nothing to position himself for entry, instead allowing his fingers to continue their probing search.  "Hate to…break it to you," she said in between gasps.  "But you…kind of need to…actually be _inside_ me for that to happen."

"Oh, I will," he promised.  His teeth nipped at her jawline.  "But not until I get my turn at tasting."

The air above her was suddenly cold as he disappeared, and Buffy's breathing froze as she felt his strong hands settle on her thighs, prising them apart.  Her lashes fluttered closed, and she felt her heart pounding inside her chest in anticipation of his first caress.

It came as an elusive tickle along the cleft where her thigh met her hip, running along the warm hollow with the dry tenderness she instantly recognized as his fingertips.  Then, they were falling, separating, and her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

Her gurgled cry was joined by the scratching of her fingers scrabbling for anchorage in the sheets, and her bottom slid further down to the edge as Spike pulled her closer.  

Where Spike had been ceaseless in his verbal appreciation of her mouth, Buffy found herself barely able to breathe, air puffing from her lungs as she fought to swallow it down, each swipe of his tongue and each thrust of his hand stoking the fires that ran rampant beneath her skin.  Never like this before, she realized, and though it shouldn't have surprised her, considering how she'd always responded to him in their more traditional lovemaking, she found her soul quaked in astonishment that something so intimate could make her feel so free.

The muscles in her stomach rippled, quickening with every stroke.  Up and down, back and around again, and the room was spinning around her, her body tensing as she felt her climax near.

Spike felt it, too, and slid up her body to thrust inside her.  The force of it sent her careening over the edge of her orgasm, and she writhed along the waves it undulated throughout her body.  Buffy's fingers scraped down his back as she struggled to maintain her grasp on her control, prompting him to bury his face in her neck, his blunt teeth nipping at the fragile skin that barely covered her pounding pulse.

He came with a roar, his back bending away him from her, the slickness of the sweat sheening his chest gleaming in the candlelight.  Part of him had hoped to make it last longer, but once he'd been sheathed within her heat, feeling her orgasm squeeze and ripple, Spike had known it was a lost cause, letting his release crest as he drank down the scent of her skin.

Buffy was panting as he collapsed back down onto her, his mouth seeking out hers and making breath even more precious.  She didn't care.  As her hands came up to tangle in the platinum curls, pulling him even closer, all she could think was that she would follow this man to the ends of the earth if he asked.  This was what love was supposed to feel like, this unquenchable hunger to make bright the world of another person.  She was a fool to think she'd ever felt anything remotely close to it before.

"Now," Spike said, rolling her to the side so that they lay face to face, "if I tell you that you're beautiful, will you not be a stubborn bint about it and tell me it's only because of me?"  The corner of his mouth lifted as he pushed back the still-damp strand of hair that had somehow glued itself to her cheek.

"No, I'll tell you you're being blinded by post-coitus bliss," she teased back with a playful slap to his chest.

"Bloody woman," he grumbled, but the smile on his face belied the huskiness of his tone.  "I'm goin' to be spending the rest of my life with you bein' contrary, aren't I?"

Buffy's eyes shone.  "Rest of…your life?  Is that how you think of us?"

Slowly, Spike lowered his head to rest on his bicep, evening it with hers as he fixed on her gaze.  "Hard not to think of forever when I'm around you," he admitted.  A single finger skated down the bridge of her nose.  "Which probably makes me look like some romantic git, but at this particular moment in time, I don't very much care.  Now if I start scribbling out more of that awful poetry, that might be another matter.  Could probably have me legally committed at that point."

"You write poetry?  I didn't know that."

"Yeah, well, I never said it was any good, now did I?"

"I'll bet it's beautiful."

"You'd lose that bet."

"I'd be willing to take that chance."  She sighed, contentment replacing the desire that had coursed through her veins only minutes earlier.  She'd never envisaged that being with someone could just be so…well, easy was really the only word for it.  Yet here she was, and there he was, and suddenly facing Angel in the morning didn't seem like such a hard thing to do, after all.  She had Spike behind her.  With that sort of support, how could she ever fail?

To be continued in Chapter 29: Angels in Disguise… 


	29. Angels in Disguise

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike and the others are preparing to get some definitive answers regarding just who exactly is behind the hit on the Mayor…

*************

He carried his clothing into the outer room, unwilling to rouse Buffy from her much-needed slumber.  It had been a late night, or an early morning if he wanted to look at it that way, and she was going to have to perform in just a couple hours.  Though he hated the circumstances that required her to sing, Spike knew that she would still want to give it her best, to give the Mayor the send-off she probably thought he deserved, and he wasn't about to be the one to rain on her parade.  Besides, if she woke up now, odds were good he'd end up being late, and this morning, that just couldn't happen.

He winced as he dialed the phone, eyes glancing furtively toward the hall to see if the sound would wake her.  The other end was picked up even before the first ring had ceased to be.

"Everyone ready?" he said in a low voice, tucking the phone into his shoulder as he pulled on the first of his boots.

"Willow and Xander are back from fetching their uniforms," Giles said.  "We were just waiting to hear from you."

"And you're jake with switching places with Wesley?"

There was a long pause, and Spike heard the distant sound of voices in the background.  "Since the injuries to his face are my responsibility," the other man replied, his voice tight, "I suppose I can hardly complain if he's not exactly suitable to be seen in the lobby, now can I?"

It was as close to an admission of fault that Spike knew he was going to get from his old friend.  "I'll meet up with you lot at the warehouse after," he said.  "Hopefully we can get this sorted by sundown."

"Hopefully.  Do be careful, Spike."

"Always, old man.  Always."  

Setting the phone back down in its cradle, he struggled with his other boot as he half-hopped, half-walked to the kitchen.  Not that he should be surprised, but he'd worked up quite an appetite through the night and since he probably wouldn't get a chance to eat until after he'd ditched the lawyer bird, breakfast seemed like a cracking idea.  He just hoped there was something edible to be found.

Spike's head was buried in the refrigerator when he heard the bedroom door open, and he'd just straightened when a sleepy Buffy appeared in the entrance.  "Please tell me you weren't planning on a clean sneak," she teased as she fought to stifle a yawn.

His gaze swept over her thin form, the way the hem of his shirt hung to the middle of her thighs, only a few of the buttons done up in her false sense of modesty.  "You should still be in bed," he scolded as he set the jam on the counter, resisting the urge to go over and bury his face between her semi-exposed breasts.

"Then you shouldn't have done that rampaging elephant impersonation out here.  It's really good, by the way.  Had me convinced."  Crossing to his side, she wrested the knife from his hand and began slathering the spread on the toast he had waiting for it.  "Pop some more in," she instructed, waving the knife toward the toaster.  "This sounds heavenly."

His fingers were hovering above the appliance when it struck him, and Spike glanced over his shoulder to see Buffy reaching into an overhead cupboard for a couple mugs, all the while humming under her breath.  It was the domesticity of it all.  The normalness.  The day-to-day routine enacted by couples who weren't preparing to kidnap a lawyer in order to put the screws to him or going off to sing at a pretend fiance's murdered father's funeral.  Had he ever really had that?  He knew that answer even before the question had finished posing itself.  Absolutely no fucking way.  Drusilla got bored just from sitting for longer than five mintues; she'd have been tearing her hair out long before this.

And yet…he liked it.  It warmed a spot in the pit of his stomach he hadn't been aware was even chilled

"What?"  Buffy froze in mid-spoonful, eyes fixed on him.  "You're staring at me."

"Just thinkin' that I'm the luckiest bloke alive," he commented, and stepped forward to cover her hand with his, guiding it back to the tin of coffee before pressing slightly to release the spoon in it.  Pulling it up and around his neck, Spike dropped his own hands to her waist and leaned forward, his lips skating along her brow.  "You'll spoil me, you keep this up, you know."

Buffy giggled as his breath tickled in her ear.  "I never knew making a cup of java for my man counted as spoiling," she teased.  "I'll have to remember that one for future reference."

Inside his trousers, he was already growing hard at the fresh scent of her hair as he buried his nose in it.  For a split second, he entertained the idea of lifting her up and taking her right there on the counter, but her voice quickly brought him crashing back to earth.

"Who was that on the phone?"

And it was exactly for that reason, the knowledge that he'd have a devil of a time keeping his hands off her if she was there, that Spike had hoped she'd stay asleep long enough for him to get out.  Because he couldn't afford to be distracted today.  Not with the shyster to sort out.

"Ripper," he replied, stepping back to the toaster.  "Just finalizing the arrangements for later."

Buffy's smile faded, and she picked up the spoon she'd been holding, twirling it absently between her fingers.  "You're going to be careful, right?" she asked.  Her face was a blank canvas, her voice neutral, but the fidgeting of her hands told him all he needed to know.  "Not that I don't trust you," she hastened to add, "but, you know, kidnapping usually involves cops, and the thought of you getting caught just gives me the heebie-jeebies."

"Stop fretting on it," he assured.  "To be square, I think this whole thing's goin' to be a walk in the park.  I'm not goin' anywhere near the hotel, and as for McDonald…"  He snorted, shaking his head.  "The guy's a suit.  My money's sayin' he'll sing before I even have to pull out my piece."

Her smile didn't reach her eyes, though, and she turned away before he could say anything further.  Bugger, Spike thought.  Can't wait for this shindig to be over so that I can blow the hell away from this town.  Grab Buffy and get her as far from this godforsaken place as possible.  Maybe show her a bit of Europe before we settle in California.  Yeah, that might be just what's called for.

He just had to sort out this Wilkins business first.

************

As he watched Willow disappear into the rear entrance of the hotel, his knuckles were tight around the steering wheel, deathly white as if the bones themselves would break through the skin.  In spite of a refreshing night's sleep, waking on the couch with her slim form stretched out on top of him like a human blanket, Wesley's nerves had quickly wound when it became apparent his part in the job was changing.  Not that he was against driving the getaway car, but he would've much rather preferred to be inside as was originally planned, watching for Lilah Morgan's comings and goings and keeping abreast of everything that transpired on the upper floor, rather than waiting helplessly outside for them to exit with their hostage.

A quick glance into the rearview mirror yielded confirmation that Giles was even less pleased with the new arrangements than he was; however, Wes had overheard the phone conversation with Spike where he'd admitted it was his own fault and took a small bit of satisfaction from that.  For Willow's sake, he wanted to like Giles.  Under other circumstances, he was certain they could've even been friends.  But Wesley wasn't blind.  It was obvious---to him, at least, if not to the redhead---that the other Englishman had stronger feelings for her than those of faux paternity, and as long as she was going to be even semi-interested in someone other than him, Giles would exhibit every jealous feature he possessed.

Of course, it didn't help the matter that Wesley had lied to them about who he was.

"Now, you're all straight on what's going to happen, right?" Xander queried from the back seat.

Wes nodded.  "I hardly think even I could bodge this up," he said wryly.  "Sit.  Wait.  Drive.  Fairly simple."

Giles' snort of derision was almost undetectable.  "I'm sure if there's a way…" he muttered, but quickly glanced away when Xander elbowed him in the ribs, a furious scowl creasing his features as he turned to stare out the window.

"Don't kill him," the young man instructed, his hand on the door handle.  "We need him to drive the car.  And I think Spike and Willow might get sore at you if we went back with his dead body."

The slam of the door made the car tremble slightly, leaving the pair in heavy silence.  The desire to look back at Giles was great, but Wesley kept his gaze locked forward, unwilling to kowtow when he'd already proven his readiness to share in their duplicity.  If Giles didn't like it, then it was his own tough---.

"Oh, dear," he heard from the back seat, and mentally kicked himself when he turned automatically to look.

"What is it?"

Giles was peering through his window, removing his glasses to clean them rapidly before replacing them on his nose, his squint becoming even more pronounced.  "Nothing," he replied, but when his hand dropped to the handle to ready his escape, Wesley's grip shot out and curled around his arm.

"Hold on there."  Danger gleamed in his eyes.  "Nothing is hardly the cause for you to take the run-out like that when you know you're not supposed to go inside for another ten minutes.  Now, for the sake of not screwing this royally up, you _will_ tell me what the hell is going on."

For a moment, it looked as if Giles was going to slug him, but Wesley remained firm, staring him down until the older man sighed in capitulation.  "Mr. Trick appears to be here," he finally said, and pointed out the window at the sidewalk.

"So…?"  But his question trailed away when he saw the spectacle before the hotel.  Not just Mr. Trick.  For all intents and purposes, it appeared that Mr. Trick had brought along enough muscle to take out a small army.  "Damn," Wesley muttered, and immediately released his hold.

Giles frowned as he watched Wes reach for the glove compartment and extract a long revolver that had been stowed there.  "What in blazes do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

He didn't even bother looking back as he checked the gun's chamber, sliding in the extra bullets to fill it up.  "You may wish to play the hero and go in there alone," he replied tightly.  "And after your little exhibition tonight, I have to admit it would give me great pleasure to see you get a taste of your own medicine."  He snapped the gun shut again, tucking it inside his jacket before turning cold eyes to the back seat.  "But I'll be damned if I'll let your arrogance put Willow in danger.  Shoot me in the back if you must, but you're not going to stop me from going in there and backing her up."

He was out of the car before Giles could respond, and scanning the oncoming traffic when he felt the other man's presence at his side.  "For God's sake," he heard the older man say, "don't go off half-cocked in there.  We're outmanned and outarmed.  We have to take it smart."

The flare of triumph almost made him smile, but instead Wesley glanced across, meeting the other set of blue eyes in understanding.  "Whatever it takes," he said in place of the bitter retort that had first sprung to mind.

There was a long pause, and then, Giles nodded.  "Whatever it takes," he repeated, and joined Wesley in searching the traffic for a break to cross.

*************

Her reach for the phone was automatic, her gaze wary as she watched Lindsey bent over some paperwork at the desk.  "Lilah Morgan," she said, and then rolled her eyes at her own stupidity.  It was difficult to break the habit, even when she wasn't officially at work.

"Just the dame I was hopin' to barber to."

The small hairs on the back of her neck stood up at the rumbling purr on the other end of the line, and she instinctively turned her back so that Lindsey couldn't see her as she spoke.  "Do I know you?" she asked, her voice revealing none of the tightening that was happening inside her stomach.

The sound of a tongue being clucked came through the phone.  "Now, that disappoints me," the man scolded.  "Here I was, thinkin' I was all special, and you don't even recognize the voice of one of your own?  I am shocked and dismayed."

Enough words this time for the English accent to be unmistakable, and Lilah's heart sped up.  "William?" she asked, this time speaking even lower.  If this _was _him, she didn't dare use either his nick- or surname, not with Lindsey's prying ears so damn close.  William could be just about anybody.

A chuckle.  "Got it in one, duck.  Or two, since you didn't cotton on straight away."

"How can I help you?"  Professional.  Distant.  Nobody would ever know who she was talking to.

"Thought you and me might be able to arrange to meet up.  I'm interested in seeing this circus hit the road, and something tells me that you're just the dame who could help with that."

"Oh?  Interesting, considering we've not had the…"  She froze for a second as she heard Lindsey shift in his seat.  "…privilege of meeting prior to this," she finished as obliquely as she could.

Another chuckle.  "Right.  Got it.  McDonald's sittin' right there, isn't he?  And little miss lawyer doesn't want him to know you've got me on the line."  She could almost hear him smiling.  "If you weren't actually a two-bit, shifty shyster, I might actually _like_ you, Lilah Morgan."

Oh, I can bag this one and be on a plane by sundown if I play it right, she thought, a delicious curl of pleasure sneaking its way up her spine.  Out loud, she said, "You said something about meeting up?"

"First off, it's not what you're thinkin'.  I'm not turning myself in.  You lot hired me to do a job, and it's done fair and square, just like the contract called for.  But now the coppers are after me, and something tells this poor ol' boy that you might be able to do something about that."

"Why me?"

"And not McDonald, you mean?"  He snorted.  "Because the wanker's pissed me off, that's why.  Makin' a play at Red, pulling his Trick on Ripper.  _You're_ the one I'm ready to play ball with.  That prat can just go fuck himself."

She bit back the desire to giggle like a schoolgirl.  Easier, and easier.  Hate Lindsey, love me, she thought in excitement, though none of it showed on her face.  "I'm not sure what you expect me to do for you.  Things are…complicated."  That's right; I'll just play it cagey.

"Hear what I got to offer.  It's all I'm askin'.  Someplace public, on my terms.  No monkey business from either of us."

Well, that was one part of the bargain she wouldn't stick to, but no reason to tell him that.  "And how do I know you're on the up-and-up?" she asked.

This time when he laughed, it was a chilling sound that destroyed the delight that had begun to accelerate through her veins.  "Because if I wanted you dead, pet, you'd be sittin' on that couch with a bullet between your pretty little eyes already and not jawing with me."

She held herself stiffly as she scribbled down the instructions he gave, her words terse.  When she set the phone back down, Lindsey immediately said, "Who was that?"

"An old client," she replied automatically.  "Wants to meet for brunch about some potential work for us to do."  She rose to her feet, grabbing her suit jacket as she tucked her purse under her arm.  "I'll be out for a few hours.  Don't wait up or anything."

Lindsey shook his head, returning to the paperwork in front of him.  "It's the middle of the morning, Lilah," he said.  "So, unless this is the sort of client that you expect to keep you until the middle of the night, I'd say odds are good I'll still be glued to this chair."  He looked up then, eyes searing over her appreciatively.  "On second thought, I hope it _is _that kind of client.  You could probably use the extra cash when Holland boots you from the firm for skipping out on your spydog routine."

She didn't even deign to reply, and wished that the floors weren't carpeted so that he could get the full effect of her heels clomping across the room as she strode determinedly for the door.  It'll serve the little joker right, she thought as she stepped into the hall.  I make that call from the lobby, scoop Rook up like my own little trophy, and Lindsey darling can run scuttling back to LA with his tail tucked between his legs.

Lilah smiled.  She loved it when things went her way.

*************

Willow's hands played with the hem of the apron tied around her waist as she watched Xander pick up the receiver of the house phone for the seventh time.  "It's still working," she said, aggravated.  She jumped when the far-off sound of a door closing echoed down the empty hallway, her head jerking around to make sure that they were still alone.  "It's worked each and every time you've checked."

"I don't get it."  He glanced down at his watch.  "We passed Spike's marker fifteen minutes ago.  Why hasn't Giles given us the ring to let us know it's all clear to go up?"

She didn't know, she wanted to scream, but didn't, instead pinching her lips together in an attempt to bite back the nerves that were scrimmaging with her common sense for control.  She hated it when plans went haywire.  Order.  That's what she liked.  Equations that balanced.  Books with happy endings.  And there was nothing orderly, or balanced, or happy about her head at that very moment in time.

With a flick of her wrist, she lifted the tablecloth covering her trolley, exposing the shelf below.  "Get in," she barked, much harsher than she intended.

Xander looked at her like she was crazy.  "We go up there without knowing that Morgan dame is gone, we're going to make Spike a very unhappy camper."  He took a step away when she pushed the cart threateningly toward him, holding up his hands in protest.  "And McDonald's seen your face, remember?  He's going to finger you as soon as they open the door."

"Which is why _you're_ going to knock like we originally planned," she argued.  Striding decisively forward, she hooked her hand around his forearm and yanked him toward the trolley.  "I'm just going to wheel you up there, you announce room service, and if the female lawyer is still there, then we leave without doing anything.  And if she's gone, then we go ahead as we're scheduled to."

He winced as he banged his head on the metal edge, ducking it further to situate himself uncomfortably on the lower shelf.  "I think I liked you better without a boyfriend," he grumbled from his folded up position.  "You were less bossy then."

Ignoring his comment, Willow dropped the tablecloth and took her place behind the cart.  She squeaked, though, when she tried to push it and managed to only roll it a few inches.  "Geez, Xander, how many donuts did you eat for breakfast this morning?" she complained.  Screwing up her face, she tried again, but immediately shook her head.  "OK, get out," she announced, flipping the fabric back up.

"I'm not that heavy," he said, clambering to his feet.

"You might as well be Charles Laughton for as much as I can push you," she groused.  "We'll just go up separately, and I'll hide around the corner when you ring.  And pray nobody sees us on the way."

As they walked along the hall toward the service elevator, she didn't acknowledge the fact that she was already praying.  Please let this not get us shot, she wished as she pushed the up button.  I'm not really in the mood for dying today.

*************

She didn't even bother to ask who it was before she pulled open the door.  "Mornin', Clarence," Faith drawled, draping her body against the edge of the entrance.  

Lindsey frowned.  Her face still made him want to wince out loud, but her attitude gave every indication that she was feeling better.  Yet, her words… "Clarence?" he quizzed as he stepped into her suite.

"Yeah, you know."  She waited expectantly, then rolled her eyes when it became apparent he had no clue what she was talking about.  "Clarence Darrow, you nitwit.  Forget it."

"No, it's just…"  The shake of his head did nothing to clear the cobwebs that had obviously settled into his brain.  Off my game today, he thought.  Maybe Lilah was right to get out of this place for a while.  "How do _you_ know who Clarence Darrow is?"

"What, you think just because I make my living on my back, I don't know how to read a newspaper or a book?  Shame on you, counselor.  If you can't figure out the people you're claiming to help, how in hell can you expect to figure out someone like William Rook?  He's going to slip through your fingers like oil, you keep that kind of slipshod thinking up."

She was right, and he knew it.  Better to just change the subject.  "Have you had breakfast yet?" he asked.

Faith shrugged.  "Just some juice." She seemed about to give him some wiseass comment---probably about maintaining her girlish figure---but then thought better of it.  "Truth is…chewing's not my favorite pastime right about now."  

Her gaze remained stolid, but Lindsey could see the pain she was still experiencing buried in the brown depths.  "Croissants are soft," he said, crossing to the phone.  He dialed a few numbers, and held the receiver up to his ear.  "And I haven't eaten yet.  Room service will do us good."

*************

The corner of Trick's mouth canted as he watched Lilah sashay through the front doors of the hotel, a satisfied smile on her lips.  "Looks like our job just got easier," he commented, turning back to face the quartet that accompanied him.  "McDonald's alone now, so no worries about stray bullets taking anyone out we don't mean to."

The nearest man grunted, shifting awkwardly in the suit jacket he obviously wasn't accustomed to.  "So, we're back to the original orders?" he asked as he followed Trick to the elevators.

"Yeah," Trick said.  He pushed the up button and stepped back, keeping his voice low enough so that only his cadre could hear him.  "Shoot to kill, boys."

To be continued in Chapter 30:  Men with Guns… 


	30. Men with Guns

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike has faked wanting to make a deal with Lilah in order to get her out of the hotel, Giles and Wesley saw Trick show up and changed their arrangements in order to make sure Willow and Xander don't get hurt, and Willow and Xander went upstairs to see about Lindsey without waiting for confirmation that Lilah was actually gone…

*************

Wesley's head swiveled as Giles slipped through the lobby exit into the back hallway of the hotel.  

The older man's eyes glittered, his lips pursed as he quickly strode to join Wes in front of the elevator.  It was only then that he frowned, scanning the otherwise empty hallway.  "Where are Willow and Xander?" he queried.

Wes pointed to the floor display over the elevator doors, the needle hovering in the twenties.  "My suspicions would suggest…up," he replied tightly.

A quick glance around, and an even more furious scowl at the ceiling.  "What in blazes do they think they're doing?" he barked.  "I never gave them the call that Miss Morgan had left the building."

"Apparently, they chose not to wait.  No matter.  We'll just go up and fetch them down before anything untoward happens."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple."  Pivoting on his heel, Giles began marching down the hall in the direction from which he'd come, stopping before the door to the stairwell.  "Come on.  We don't have time to wait for the lift."

"What's wrong?" Wesley asked as he joined him.  Together, they began hurrying up the stairs, long legs taking them two by two as the sounds of their heels pounded hollowly against the walls around them.

"I overheard Trick speaking to his men at the lift," Giles said.  His breath was starting to quicken.  "And something tells me that the words 'Lindsey McDonald' and 'shoot to kill' are not good for us."

"But that doesn't make sense," Wes argued.  His own pace accelerated, drawing him level with Giles as they sped past the landing for the fifth floor.  "Why would they kill their own attorney?"

"Perhaps…it's their way…of firing him."  He stopped, panting.

For a moment, Wesley hesitated on an upper stair, glancing upward before looking back at his unwilling partner.  "Are you all right?" he finally asked.  "Perhaps we should get the lift after all.  Or I can go on ahead and you can---."

"I'm fine."  Not even bothering to hide his glare, Giles began jogging up the stairs again, albeit one at a time now.  "We can't afford to have Trick get there first.  If Willow and Xander really are up there…"

Though he didn't finish his sentence, both men knew the warning it would've held.  Neither was ready to allow it to happen.  Together, they continued onwards and upwards.

*************

"Is he there?"

"Sssshhh!"  Xander waved at Willow to duck back behind the corner as he stood before Lindsey's door, the trolley just to his side.  Waiting until she'd disappeared again, he raised his hand and added a second sharp rap.  Maybe this was why they hadn't gotten a call, he thought.  Maybe it's because McDonald left with the female lawyer.

Behind him, he heard a door open.  "There you are," came a male voice.  He whirled, and gazed at the shorter man standing in the opposite room, doing a quick inventory of his appearance.  Dark hair, expensive shoes, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow.  Could be him.  Xander was beginning to wish he'd paid more attention to Willow's files.  There probably had been a photograph of the lawyer somewhere in the bunch.

"I thought I told the desk I wanted it delivered to this suite instead," the other man said, stepping into the hall.

"Mr. McDonald?" Xander quizzed.

Lindsey frowned, finally looking at him full-on.  "There's nobody else on this floor, now is there?" he commented, his voice dripping in condescension.

In the constriction of the hotel uniform they'd stolen for him to wear, Xander stiffened, straightening to his full height so that he towered over the smaller man.  Ha, he thought.  Little lawyer man may have me beat in the brains department, but I could take him any day.  Out loud, he merely said, "Yes, sir."

Lindsey's attention returned to the trolley, picking up the various silver covers on the food, his frown deepening with every plate's exposure.  "Where are the croissants?" he asked when he was done.  "I specifically ordered croissants."

"What's up?"

Xander's head jerked at the new voice, his eyes widening as Faith's dark head appeared behind the lawyer.  They widened even further when he saw the bruises marring her otherwise beautiful features.

_Boy oh boy, someone really did a number on her_.

The thought was quickly followed by, _I wonder what the hell she's doing here,_ and then…

_Oh shit, she knows who I am_.

"They forgot the croissants," Lindsey was saying.  He'd half-turned away, ignoring the other man in the hall, but Xander saw her doe eyes flicker past the attorney to alight on him, recognition dawning there almost immediately.

"Hey---," she started, and then snapped her mouth shut when Xander pulled out the revolver he'd had tucked in the back of his trousers.  

"Where's Miss Morgan?" he demanded.

"Out," Lindsey said.  He froze when he saw the gun, but his face remained impassive.

"Good.  Willow!"

From around the corner, the redhead poked out her head, and quickly hurried forward to join Xander at the trolley, her own small pistol cradled in her hand.  She stopped in surprise when she saw Faith standing in the doorway.  "Oh," she said.  "O-kay…"

"I should've known," the brunette said, shaking her head.  "How many more of you did Rook have stashed around Heaven?"

"You know these people?" Lindsey asked.

She shrugged.  "Know's such a strong word."

"What're we going to do, Xander?" Willow asked.  She didn't even bother lowering her voice; at such close proximity, to do so would've been silly.  "She's not supposed to be here."

"Not telling me anything I don't already know, Will," he said.  "I guess we'll just have to take her with.  Spike'll know what to do."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down."  Lindsey's gaze swept over the group.  "I'm sure we can come to some kind of---."

"Willow!"

All heads turned to see Wesley come rushing down the hall, a gasping Giles several feet behind.  The oncoming pair drew their weapons as soon as they saw Lindsey, though Wes didn't stop until he'd reached the redhead's side.

Faith's eyebrows shot up.  "Hello, Grand fucking Central.  And I gotta say, Wes, interesting company you're keeping these days," she drawled, crossing her arms and leaning against the jamb.

"What're you guys doing here?" Willow asked.

"We've…got company," Giles wheezed.  His hand shot out to steady himself against the wall, and she pushed past Wes to go to her mentor's side, slipping under his arm to help him stay upright.

"Are you all right?" she asked.  "You don't look so good."

"That would be running up twenty-odd flights of stairs you're looking at," Wesley said.

"I'm fine," Giles assured.  "Just…a little winded."

"You know this joint's got an elevator, don't you?"  This came from Faith.

"It was taken.  And we couldn't wait for the service lift to come back down."  His bespectacled gaze jumped to Xander.  "Trick's on his way up here to kill Mr. McDonald.  We have to get him out of here _now_ if we want to get any information."

For the first time since opening the door, Lindsey smiled.  "I'm afraid you've jumped to the wrong conclusion, Mr. Giles.  Mr. Trick is my liaison with my client.  He's probably just here to deliver some information."

"With four armed men?" he shot back.  "What kind of information requires instructing them that they can go ahead and shoot to kill now, because Miss Morgan isn't around to accidentally catch a stray bullet?"  He straightened, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping at his brow.  "Whatever it is you've done, Mr. McDonald, you've managed to piss them off, just as thoroughly as you've angered Spike.  I think coming with us is really your only option at this point if you want to stay alive."

"What about the dame?" Xander asked, jerking his thumb toward Faith.

She surprised them all by answering first.  "I'll go with you," she said firmly.  She held up her chin in defiance when even Lindsey turned to look at her.  "What?  I've had my fill of walking ego trips doing their thinking with their dicks and guns.  If you think I've got some secret yet to be caught in this particular line of fire, you really are a sap."

"We have to get going---."

"I'm not going anywhere without my files," Lindsey announced and tried to push his way past Xander into his hotel suite, only to be stopped by the bigger man's hand wrapped around his bicep.

"We don't have time," Giles said through gritted teeth.  "Now---."  

In the distance, the unmistakable sound of the elevator bell rang down the hall, the soft swish of the doors following immediately afterward.  Wesley's eyes glittered as they glared down the corridor.  "Damn it," he muttered.  "Both the stairs and the service lift are back there."

"Guess that means this is Custer's last stand," said Xander.  He released his hold on the attorney, and cocked his gun.

Immediately, Faith stepped into the hall and grabbed the trolley.  "If you guys want to get out of this with your skin still all nice and pretty---."  She stopped, catching Wesley's eye.  "---or maybe just really colorful," she went on, "I suggest you cheese it and get your asses into the bedroom back there."  She jerked her head back toward her suite.  "I'll take of your Trick problem."

As the sound of mens' voices and footsteps grew closer, Willow grabbed Wesley's arm and pulled him toward the room.  "C'mon, Giles," she shot back.  "We've got zero choices right now."

Faith watched them file past, but when Xander tried to cross in front of her, her arm shot out to block his path.  "Not you, cutie pie," she said.  "I'm going to need you to go park your caboose on the couch.  Keep your gun tucked away, and follow my lead."

He exchanged a glance with Giles, waiting for his nod before replying in his own affirmative.  "Gotcha."

She cast a quick glance back down the hall as she pushed the trolley inside after them, closing the door behind her.  "All right, people," she said to the group vanishing into the suite's bedroom.  "Traps shut, gats ready.  Them's the rules if you want to get out of this little hellhole alive."

*************

Trick stretched his neck to the side as he pulled his suitcoat down in an attempt to sharpen up his image.  Not that he didn't always look good, but being around the mouthpiece was enough to make him want to put in that extra effort.  "Keep back, boys," he instructed as he raised his hand to knock.  "Let me get in before we blow this gee away."

The rap was loud in the empty corridor, and he waited for the footsteps to come up on the other side.  They never came.  He frowned and knocked again.

"Maybe he's not home," one of his men said.

"I've been eyeballing this joint since dawn," Trick said.  "I'm telling you, he never left."

Two minutes passed, and it became increasingly obvious that nobody was coming to answer the door.  A third knock boomed in the wide space, made with a raised fist instead of careful knuckles, but when it elicited footsteps this time, they came from behind him instead of before.

"What's the racket out here?"

Trick pivoted to see Faith standing in the doorway opposite, her curvaceous body stretched along the edge of the jamb.  Too many buttons were undone on her blouse, exposing the lacy edge of her bra, and while her face looked the worse for wear, he thought, her body most certainly did not.

"Aren't you the Mayor's dame?" he asked, recognizing her in spite of her injuries.

Faith shrugged.  "Kind of hard to be a guy's dame when he's six feet under, now isn't it?"

"I thought his funeral was this morning.  How come you're not there?"

For a moment, he thought he saw regret flicker behind the brown eyes.  "Not my cup of tea," she said.  "I'd rather remember Richard the way he was and not with his head blown to pieces because of Rook's gun."

Trick nodded.  "I can pipe that.  Heard you were there when the hit went down.  Shame Rook had to mess up your pretty face at the same time, though."

She ignored his compliment, instead nodding toward the door behind him.  "You looking for the lawyer?" she asked.

"Yeah, he called me and said he wanted a meeting.  Said it was important.  You seen him around?"

"Not since he took off half an hour ago.  He popped over here to see how I was doing, and then said he was going out for some grub.  Isn't that bitch around?  What's her name…Lilah?"

"Nah, she took off."  Trick's gaze slid past her, peering into the living area of the suite that was exposed.  A dark head was visible on the couch.  "Who's your friend?"

Faith followed his eyes, her lips curving into a lusty smile.  "Just someone to keep me company when I get a little lonesome.  Isn't that right, loverboy?"  

She called out the last to the couch, and Trick saw the man there half-turn to look back, a smile on his own face.  Something about him seemed familiar, but he just filed it away as someone who worked for Wilkins.  He'd seen enough of Angel's men over the last few weeks for them all to begin to look alike.

"Get that sweet ass of yours back here," the man said.  "This couch is getting cold."

"You need anything else?" Faith asked, turning back to face Trick.  "'Cause, you know, can't keep a cold man waiting."

"No.  Thanks."  He started to turn away, and then stopped, holding up a hand to prevent her from completely closing the door.  "McDonald didn't say how long he was going to be, did he?" he asked.

She smiled.  "Do I look like his fucking secretary?" she said lightly.  "I'm just around to keep him company when he wants, just like Angel asked.  You're tooting the wrong ringer if you think I bother keeping tabs on him when I get a few minutes to myself."

"Right," Trick said, laughing.  He backed away.  "Have a good one."

*************

As soon as the door was closed, Xander buried his face in his hands.  "Anya's going to kill me," he muttered, shaking his head.  "I'm headed straight to hell on a hooker-lined path."

"Aw, you were great, slugger."  Faith strode to the bedroom door, pushing it open to reveal the group listening on the other side.  "Coast is clear," she announced.  "I suggest we double-time our exit.  The sooner we blow this joint, the more distance we get from Mr. Bo-shoot-me-up out there."

"I don't get it."  A confused Lindsey wandered into the living room.  "Trick and I weren't set to have a meeting.  Why would he come around and say we did?"

"Hello?  Have you not been listening?"  Xander was up on his feet.  "You screwed up, probably by letting Spike getting away in the first place, which was a good thing for us but I'm thinking not so much for your client out there."

"We don't have time to be debating this," Wesley said.  He had his weapon drawn, and was standing with his ear to the outer door, listening for any sounds in the hall.  "As soon as they get on the lift, we need to get out of here."

Giles nudged Lindsey with the muzzle of his gun.  "No more talking until we meet up with Spike, got it?  One word, and I'll shoot you myself."

Reluctantly, the lawyer nodded.  He may not like it, but at least _these_ men with guns seemed to be giving him an option about how long he got to live.

*************

He was halfway in the elevator when the trolley rolled by behind him.  Frowning, Trick's arm shot out, stopping the door from closing, and he looked back to see the steward heading around the corner.  "Hey!" he called out.  He waited for the young man to stop, his mind flashing to the matching cart he'd seen parked inside Faith's suite.  "I thought that Mr. McDonald was the only one on this floor."

The steward nodded.  "He is.  This is the breakfast he ordered."

Trick's eyes narrowed.  "How long ago?"

"About ten minutes.  He called it down himself."

The muscles in his jaw twitched as he turned to look back at the quartet waiting in the elevator.  "Get 'em out, boys," he said, pulling out his gun from inside his jacket.  "Don't know why, but it looks like we've been had."

*************

Spike glanced at his watch.  Any minute now, he thought, returning his gaze to his window and the sidewalk across the street.  He was parked across from the restaurant he'd arranged with Lilah to meet at, to ensure that she actually showed up and stayed away from the hotel long enough for the job to get done.  Of course, if she didn't show, it would just mean trying this again some other time.  At least he wouldn't have to worry about Red, Harris, and Ripper if this turned out to be a bust; if the dame never left, they'd never move to take the lawyer.  The whole thing would just be called a wash.

So far, though, no show.

As his eyes remained locked on the restaurant and its surrounding area, Spike's mind drifted back to the apartment and Buffy's fervent good-bye kiss.  "Knock 'em dead," he'd whispered in her ear when he'd finally been able to tear his lips away from hers.

"You're supposed to tell me to break a leg," she'd teased.  Her breath had tickled where she nibbled at his neck, and he'd had to forcibly push her away, his hands on her slim hips, holding her at arm's length before he spoke again.

"My line of work, that's too much like actual consequences," he'd replied.  "And someone's bein' a very naughty girl in tryin' to make me late."

Her grin had been almost a leer, her eyes dropping pointedly to the erection his trousers did nothing to hide.  "And here I thought you'd like Naughty Buffy."

He couldn't help his answering grin.  "You're killin' me here, pet."

Good humor instantly vanishing, she'd said, "Don't kid about that.  It's not funny."

His response had been to immediately take her into his arms, brushing his lips across the top of her still unkempt hair.  "It's not," he'd agreed.  "But you don't need to fuss.  I'm the best, remember?"

His small joke had eased a modicum of the tension in her shoulders, and he'd slipped out after another small kiss.  They couldn't get out of this city soon enough, he realized.  The more distance they had between them and everything that had ever haunted Buffy, the happier he was going to be.

The knock on the passenger side window instinctively brought up the gun he had cradled out of sight in his lap, its deadly aim directed toward his new visitor.

To her credit, Lilah didn't even flinch.  Instead, she smiled, and made a rolling down motion with her hand, indicating the window.

Fuck, Spike thought.  Got distracted and didn't see her coming.  Still…he was the one with the weapon, inside the vehicle that could get him out of here.  Without letting the gun waver from its target, he slowly leaned over and twisted the handle to lower the glass.

"I have to say," she said, leaning forward and resting her arms so that her face was practically in the car, "you are much better looking in person than you are in your mug shots."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," he replied.  His eyes were cold.  "Care to tell me why you aren't inside?"

"Do you care to tell _me_?"

"Waiting for you to show."

"I could say the same."  She glanced down at the lock on the door.  "May I?"

He shook his head.  "Don't think so.  I'm more the private type.  You can just stay on that side, while me and the heat stay on this."  He didn't like how this was turning out.  She seemed far too relaxed, and considering he was the one in the position of power, that couldn't be good.

"Private?  You?"  Lilah laughed, a cold, brittle sound.  "With that hair?  The least you could've done was wear a hat if you didn't want me to see you.  Looking like that, you're just begging to be made."

Spike gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched.  _Hope that's enough time for you guys_, he thought angrily.  _Because I'm done with my end of the arrangement, right now._

His free hand angled around the steering column to turn on the ignition, his gaze never leaving the other window.  "Can't say it's been a pleasure," he said, the engine roaring to life.  "See you in hell."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He paused.  "Do what?"

"Blow off.  If you leave without me being in this car, you'll be dead before you get back into traffic.  That's a promise."  

"Looks like I'm the one with the gun, toots, so I don't really see how _you_ can do me in.  Unless you're counting on that killer smile of yours.  But then again, you'd be out of luck there, too.  My heart's been stopped by the best of 'em, and, pet?   You are _not_ among that number."

"Look, Mr. Rook, I understand you have plenty of swift and could plug me before I could even turn away.  But, you shoot me, and you're going to get the same response as if you drove away alone."  She began pointing to various people along the walk---a man in a phone booth down the street, another one loitering in an alleyway behind him---as well as scattered cars parked along the road.  "That one's mine, and that one, and that one, and even more if you want me to waste even more of our time to point them out to you.  I'm not so private.  I like to keep a little company, especially that of large, burly men who are expert shots."

Spike didn't say a word.  The possibility that she would doublecross him had been brought up when they were discussing the plan, but he had argued that he could handle anything she'd throw his way and the others had left it at that.  This much back-up, he hadn't expected, at least, not without a little warning.  But that didn't mean he still couldn't deal with it.

"So, what's this all about then?" he asked, his hand falling from the keys.  "You need this much muscle just to talk to me?"

Lilah shook her head.  "No, I need this much muscle to take you in."  Her smile widened.  "I'm your personal escort, Mr. Rook.  The game is over."

To be continued in Chapter 31: Drive a Crooked Road… 


	31. Drive a Crooked Road

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Faith has helped the others hide from Trick, but he has figured out that they were lying to him, while Spike has found himself double-crossed by Lilah…

*************

She loved to gloat, but with Spike still aiming the gun at her head, Lilah decided to opt for the better side of discretion in this case as she slid onto the seat next to him.  All right, the _safer_ side.  No reason to push his buttons even harder than she already had.  After all, she had his balls in a lock and he knew it.

"Do you mind?" she asked, holding out her hand for the gun.

"Actually, I do," he retorted.  His fingers tightened around the grip.  "Me and this piece go back quite a ways."

"You won't get a chance to use it.  If the police see you with a weapon, you won't step out of this car alive."

"I'll take my chances."  His eyes were ice chips as they remained steady on her face.  "That what this is about then?  You expect me to turn myself in?"

"That's the plan," Lilah said brightly.  In spite of her certainty at success, his demeanor made her wish she'd thought to bring along her own weapon.  Not that she really knew how to use anything---her most viable ammunition had always been her mouth---but it would definitely help the like-a-lamb-stepping-into-the-lion's-den feeling he was creating in the pit of her stomach.  "I thought it was a rather good one, myself.  The fact that you fell for it, hook, line, and sinker, is just a bonus for me."

"Because if I kill you or drive off without you, I'm a dead man."

His voice was so matter-of-fact, she wondered what it was she was missing.  "Yes."

"Seems like an obvious choice to me, then."  As she watched, he turned back toward the front, dropping the gun onto his lap before setting his hands on the steering wheel.  "Which precinct did you have in mind, pet?"

Too easy, her mind screamed at her, and for the first time since rapping on his window, Lilah's smile faltered.  Her head turned to see the other cars pull out to match his ease into traffic, prompting a chuckle from Spike.

"Just out of curiosity," he said, and coasted the car to a stop at the red light.  "How many other escorts you got for me out there?  The ones of the wheeled variety, I mean."

She watched as his eyes flickered between his mirrors.  Her smile was now completely gone, replaced by a puzzled frown.  "Why?" she hedged.  "What does it matter?"

Spike shrugged.  "Doesn't.  Not in the long run."

The sudden jump of the car into the intersection made Lilah screech, scrambling for purchase at the door as she was slammed against it, the world careening around her as the Desoto dodged the traffic coming through the intersection.  Whipping her head around, she saw the others try to follow through the red, weaving slowly among the vehicles that had screeched to a halt to avoid collision, before turning to gape at Spike.

"You're completely crazy," she said.

His knuckles were white around the wheel, his foot pressed to the floor as he pushed the velocity as far as he could manage along the street.  "That sounds like it surprises you," he said, but the casualness of his tone contradicted the tension in his jaw, the darting of his eyes.

"It---."  She was cut off with another yelp when he jerked the wheel to the left, cutting across an oncoming car to barrel down a narrow side road.  Heart pounding inside her chest, Lilah jolted when he deliberately sideswiped a row of garbage cans, sending them rolling into the street behind them with muffled metallic clanks.  A look into her side mirror revealed a stream of cars following, three of the five that had been originally there.  Damn it, she thought through her terror.  At this rate, he'll lose them before we've even three blocks away.

When Spike turned the Desoto onto the next major intersection, her lips glued themselves together in a desperate bid to hold in her fright, and for the briefest of moments, her nerves began to sink back to some semblance of normalcy.  It lasted barely a breath, though.  It lasted just long enough for her to see the cars heading toward them instead of in the same direction.

"You're going to kill both of us!" she hissed, and dared to glance over at him.  Anything was better than seeing the traffic racing at her; if she didn't see death coming, maybe it wouldn't hurt as much.

Spike's eyes were twinkling, his lips spread into a wide smile, and it dawned on Lilah that the bastard was actually getting off on this.  "Dance with the devil, duck," he purred, "and you gotta expect to get your feet burned."

*************

She had purpose now.  The others didn't know the truth of it, or at least they accepted her version of why she was eager and willing to go along with them, but Faith didn't care.  All that she could think about was that this was her ticket to getting closer to Rook.

Not that her interest wasn't piqued regarding his friends.  She probably should've expected that the duo they'd had dinner with at Heaven were part of Spike's coterie, but the red-haired coat check girl came as a surprise.  What was even more surprising was seeing good ol' boy Wes hanging all over her like a lovesick puppy.  Wonder if they know he's a white hat, she mused, and then internally shrugged.  None of her business.  Though it would be hysterical to watch if it all came out in the open.

Now, however, wasn't the time for that.  Now was the time for getting their shit together and running.  Fast.

"All right," she said, grabbing her purse from the desk.  "Let's---."

"Someone's coming," Wesley barked from the closed door.

"Back in the bedroom.  Now!" Giles ordered.

Faith watched as everyone scrambled, Xander resuming his place on the couch while the rest disappeared back into the bedroom.  Might as well be Keystone Kops, she thought wryly, and turned back toward the door when a knock sounded throughout the suite.

The steward on the other side surprised her until she saw the croissants piled in a bowl on the trolley behind him.  "I forgot Linds called for room service," she said, and then froze when she saw Trick ambling down the corridor.

"Guess you forgot a lot of stuff, right, doll?" he said without a smile.  Pressing a ten dollar bill into the steward's chest, he added, "Why don't you go ahead and blow, pal?  I think I can help the little lady with her breakfast."

With a stuttering thank you, the young man smiled, tipped his cap, and scurried back toward the service elevator, leaving Faith staring at Trick with the trolley placed between them.

"Where is he?" he asked smoothly once they were alone.

Though her mind was hustling for ways to get out of her current predicament, on the outside, she appeared unflustered, eyes steady, her breathing even.  "Who're you talking about?"

Trick tutted under his breath.  "Liar, liar, pants on fire," he murmured.  "I don't like people who try to pull the wool over my eyes.  I don't _like _wool.  It's itchy."  His free hand shot out across the trolley, linking through Faith's hair and pushing her against the jamb, holding her in position while he kicked the cart out of his way.  He cocked his gun and pressed it to her temple.  "So, I'm only going to ask this one more time.  Where is he?"

Her ears were ringing, the sharp stabs of pain from the impact against her bruises momentarily thrusting Faith back to her apartment, the dark shadow of Angel clouding her vision as his fist descended over and over again into her face.  The taste of blood on her tongue told her Trick had managed to split her lip again, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the pain.  

"Let her go."

She was facing the wrong direction, but there was no mistaking Xander's voice.  Or the sound of his gun cocking as he approached the door.

Trick chuckled.  "Well, if it isn't Sir Galahad.  Hate to break it to you, but she's no Guinevere.  Save your ammo."

"She lied to you because of me.  You got a beef, you deal with me.  Leave her out of it."

Faith's eyes shot open, the pressure on her head vanishing when Trick let her go.  She turned just in time to see him say, "What have you got to do with McDonald?"

Xander stood just inside the door, the gun resting comfortably in his palm, ignoring the drawn weapons of the men surrounding Trick.  "I came here to do business with him, and I thought you might be that female lawyer coming around.  I didn't want her to know I was talking to McDonald, so I asked Faith to cover for me."

"Business?  What kind of business?"

"I work for William Rook.  I came here to tell McDonald how to get him."

As she surreptitiously wiped the blood from her lower lip, Faith's eyes narrowed in scrutiny of the brunette's face.  Just what in hell is he playing at here? she wondered.  

Trick's response was to laugh out loud.  "Oh, really?  And he fell for that line?"  Just as quickly, the wide smile was wiped from his countenance, leaving behind a brittle mask, dark eyes gleaming in disbelief.  "You're going to have to be selling a lot of softsoap, boy, for me to be believing that you'd turn over your boss like that.  You're dressed like a fuckin' steward."

He glanced down at the uniform he was wearing.  "I had to get in here without drawing any attention to myself.  And you can believe what you want.  Spike signed me on to do a job.  He didn't say anything about it being murder."  

The air was heavy in the silence that ensued, each man regarding the other in a gravity that made Faith want to scream out in frustration.  It was different trying to fool Trick when she'd known what the hell was going on.  But this story about turning over Spike had come out of the blue, and her brain wasn't entirely sure just how serious it actually was.

"I think you're full of shit," Trick finally said.  "You just don't want me hurting the dame here.  No way do you work for Rook."

For a moment, Xander just stared at him.  "Fine," he said, and whirled on his heel to march for the bedroom door.  As his fist pounded on it, he called out, "McDonald!  Get your ass out here!"

Faith inched away from the entrance, trying to gain as much distance as she could between the group in the hall and what she was beginning to believe was the psycho at the bedroom.  As she watched, the door opened and Lindsey stepped out, his eyes darting from Xander to Trick, and then back to Xander again.

"You knocked…ever so belligerently?" he commented coldly.

Xander jerked his thumb behind him.  "Tell these jokers who I work for."

From where she was standing, Faith couldn't see his face, but she could see Lindsey's as it coolly appraised the man before him.   Would he tell the truth?  Or would he try covering and blow whatever this guy was trying to do?

"You work for William Rook," Lindsey replied.

_Score one for the Gipper_, she thought.

Xander was already turned back to face Trick.  "So unless you can think of some other reason I'd be visiting with the enemy here, maybe it might be a good idea to shut your trap and believe what I told you."

She was very glad she was out of the line of fire.  Anger flared in the black man's eyes, his nostrils wide as his lips thinned to an almost invisible line.  

_And the Gipper goes down in flames_.

Except he didn't.

"You don't need to be dealing with any middleman," Trick said.  "You want to give over Rook, you can do it to me."

Xander shook his head.  "No dice.  I do that, and Spike'll be wearing a Chicago overcoat before sunset.  Least with McDonald, I know he'll stand a fair shot at getting through this with his neck still intact."

"You're giving him up and you're worried about how he's going to be treated?"  He laughed.  "Mighty big of you, pal."

"Spike and I go back a long way.  I may be pissed at the bastard for playing me for a sap, but it doesn't mean I want the guy dead."

"I could shoot McDonald.  Then, you wouldn't have a choice but to deal with me."  He looked ready to make good on his threat, and Faith's gaze bounced back to a still-calm Xander.

"You do that, and you'll have to shoot me, too, because there's no way I'm dealing with you, Mr. Trick."

"You know my name."

"Which means I also know what kind of man you are.  I meant what I said."

She had to admit, the guy surprised her.  She'd been mildly amused by Xander's banter at Heaven, but dismissed him as a lightweight.  And he'd quickly bowed to both Giles' and Wesley's lead once they approached, which meant he was used to being a toady as opposed to a leader.  But he was holding his own with Trick, staring him down with a gaze that was just as frigid as the mobster's.  That took balls.

The exact same words were just coming out of Trick's mouth.  "You just bought Mr. McDonald here an extra day," he commented, slipping his gun inside his jacket.  Coal-colored eyes flickered to Lindsey.  "My employer is very interested in seeing Mr. Rook pay for what he's done.  But if your new friend here is lying to me, and Rook's not in police custody by six o'clock tonight, you can guarantee that I'll be back.  And this time, I won't be asking questions first before I shoot you."

And with a quick jerk of his head to his men, he was gone.

*************

She practically flew out the door when Lindsey opened it, flying straight to Xander's rigid form and throwing her arms around it.  "Ohmigod!" Willow exclaimed.  "That was amazing!"

His body was unyielding within her vigorous embrace, his voice flat when he spoke.  "Tell me I did not just stand here and try to outbluff a New York mobster with four of his baddies right behind him," he said, eyes locked on the now-closed door.

"No try about it," Giles said, clapping his hand down on his other shoulder.  "Well done."

"I am seriously insane," Xander intoned.  "Or stupid.  I haven't decided which yet."

"You could be both," Faith offered.  She smiled as she sauntered to face him, hand on her hip as she looked him up and down.  "But, damn, that was a nice piece of work you did there, buster."

He moved then, head tilting to glance down at her, and his eyes went wide.  "I'm married," he blurted, stumbling backwards and out of Willow's grasp.

"He really was going to kill me," Lindsey murmured.

"Yes, I believe we established that," Giles replied.  His gun was back in his hand, and he used it to gesture toward the door.  "Now, if we could please get going, I'd really rather not be around in case Mr. Trick decides to pay us a third visit."

"Good plan."  Xander was halfway to the door before anyone else could speak.  "I got shotgun."

*************

Trick stopped as he stepped into the sunshine, canting his head back to look up into the cloudless sky.  "Who's got a yen for working on his tan?" he said blithely.

"What's up?" one of his men asked.

"My suspicions."  He pivoted to stare back into the hotel's lobby, obsidian eyes drinking in the seeming normalcy of it.  "I want two of you to stick around and tail the lawyer and his new pal if they leave the building.  A little birdy's whispering in my ear that they're not going to be sticking around."

"You think he was lying?"

Trick shook his head.  "Not sure.  But I'm not willing to take any chances.  McDonald's not about to play me for a chump if I can help it.  You see anything out of line, I want you to take him out.  Take 'em _both_ out.  We'll worry about netting Rook another way if we have to."

*************

Her face was pinched, her cheeks deathly white, when Spike eased the Desoto to the curb.  Casting another sideways glance at his passenger, he dropped the car into park but didn't kill the engine, instead picking up the gun that still rested in his lap.  "End of the line," he announced, aiming it casually in Lilah's direction.

She tried to meld herself into the door, to secure whatever added distance she could between them, as if that might prolong the inevitable.  "So that's it?  You're going to kill me now?"

It almost made him laugh.  For all her bravado, she really was naïve.  Her little plan had dissolved when he'd lost the last of the cars flanking him somewhere in Chinatown, although she'd realized much sooner that she'd seriously erred in her estimation of her target.  For some reason, that gave Spike a small thrill of satisfaction.

"When someone comes around and offers me fifty large to blow you down," he said, "then I'll do you the favor.  For right now, though…"  He leaned across her body, catching the door's latch and shoving it open.  "…this is where you get off."

The sudden disappearance of the brace against her back sent Lilah sprawling to the dirty sidewalk, and she noticed for the first time the cracks in the cement, the distinct scent of…oh god, she didn't want to know what that was…in the air.  "And where is here?" she demanded, scrambling to her feet and wiping the back of her skirt as she looked around.

"Welcome to the Bronx."

"And how in hell do you expect me to get back?"

He grinned.  "You're a smart dame.  I'm sure you'll figure something out.  And I owe you a spot of thanks, I think.  If it wasn't for your little distraction, my part in this little escapade today could've been bum-numbingly boring."  Pulling the door shut, Spike offered her a small salute before pulling away from the curb.

He didn't hear her final words drifting after the retreating vehicle.

"Escapade?  What escapade?"

*************

They stood together in the shadows at the entrance of the alley, cigarettes burning brightly as their dark gazes moved continuously around them---from the hotel's front entrance, to the cars lining the streets, to the throngs of people passing them by.  "We should've just drilled 'em upstairs," the first said.  "Rook's chilled off plenty of our boys.  It's the least we owe him."

"We do what Trick says," the second said.

"Don't tell me you're not itching for revenge?  He got Isaiah."

"Technically, one of his men got Isaiah---."

"Could've been the one upstairs."

"And I'm telling you, we do what Trick says.  Now stop arguing with me about---."  He stopped when his partner grabbed his arm, turning him around to see the side entrance of the hotel push open into the alley, and Xander emerge.  He pointed in vindication.  "See?  Trick was right.  He's trying to sneak off."

The pair slid around the corner, out of direct view from the alley but still able to see the exit.  As they watched, Lindsey emerged, followed immediately by Giles.

"Hey…" said the second, frowning.  "Isn't that…?"

"Yeah.  Looks like them leaving wasn't the only thing Trick was right about."  Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his gun.  "You heard what he said.  We take 'em out."

*************

He wasn't listening to her excited chatter as she followed Faith out into the alley.  Wes was just relieved that they were all getting out of this latest quandary with their lives intact.  Listening to Xander through the bedroom door had left him with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, but then he'd remembered how the man's words had managed to fool even Angel and he'd held his breath until Trick had left the suite.  A glib tongue had managed to save the day, and nobody got shot in the process.  That was always a good thing in his book.

The powerful rings of a gun being fired echoed between the brick walls of the alley, and Wes saw Faith shove hard against Willow, propelling her back into the hotel as he slipped past them, drawing his weapon at the same time.  Lindsey was flat on the ground, trying to make himself as small as possible, while Giles and Xander were crouching around the garbage cans, shooting toward the mouth of the alleyway.  

He didn't even look before shooting, diving sideways until his shoulder crunched against the concrete ground, the world suddenly lopsided as he took aim at the two dark figures poking around the front corners of the building.  A grim satisfaction flared in his chest when he saw a spurt of red erupt from one of their shoulders, the weapon the assailant had been holding dropping to the ground as he lost his grip.  Another shot, this one from either Xander or Giles---in the flurry, it was hard to tell which---shattered the man's kneecap, and he fell forward with a scream of angry agony.

"We have to get out of here," Wesley heard Lindsey hiss behind him.  "This kind of activity will bring the cops around for sure.  This isn't the kind of thing this neighborhood takes very lightly."

Silently, he agreed, but kept on shooting instead, only hesitating when a bullet shattering the brick near his face sent the second shooter scurrying away for safety.

"C'mon!" Xander called, beginning to run for the opposite end of the alleyway.  "We'll go around the block to get to the car!"

Wes was about to follow when Faith's voice rang out from the still-open door.  Pausing, he glanced inside, his eyes immediately dropping when he realized both women weren't standing.

A pool of blood was already beginning to spread out across the tiled floor, seeping into the cracks to begin making tiny spider veins along the pale marble, scarlet streaks that made it appear as if the building itself was bleeding.  All of a sudden, frigid hooks began to curl and writhe within Wesley's gut, shredding his relief into fluttering ribbons when he saw the pallor in both women's cheeks.

"It's not me," Faith said, unnecessarily, looking down at the unconscious woman nestled in her lap.  "It's Red here…"

To be continued in Chapter 32: I Hear You Calling Me…


	32. I Hear You Calling Me

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike has evaded Lilah's trap by losing her escorts in a car chase and then dumping her in the Bronx, while Xander has managed to bluff their way free from Trick.  Trick, on the other hand, didn't trust them not to leave and left two men with orders to shoot if anything out of miss occurred.  The ensuing shoot-out left Willow bleeding and unconscious…

*************

_No._

_Not Willow._

With the frantic nerves of a man possessed, Wesley crouched and began searching for the wound, tugging at the hem of her uniform blouse when he saw the blood staining its front.  The two bottom buttons popped off in his haste, skittering and rolling forgotten across the marble tile.

He didn't have to raise her top any further.  There, on her left side, was a small hole, the blood seeping down her angled side to drip onto the floor.  As carefully as he could manage, Wes slid his hand around her body, gently probing, but was met only with the smooth skin of her back.

"We have to get her to a hospital," he announced, and slipped his arms beneath her, relieving Faith of the weight as he straightened.

Lindsey blocked his path from the doorway.  "Hospitals mean police," he said.  "That's a gunshot wound, which means there'll be a report.  And if there's a report on a Willow Rosenberg injured at this particular hotel, you can be damn sure that Lilah will find out about it."

"I don't care," Wesley gritted.  "There's no exit wound, which means the bullet is still inside.  She could have internal bleeding, or develop an infection, and if you think for a moment that I'm going to let that happen---."

"We'll have to make other arrangements," Giles interrupted, stepping up.  "McDonald's right.  Her hospitalization will provide the police with leverage to get to Spike, and you know as well as I do that Willow wouldn't want that to happen."

"I'm not about to let her die!"  His shirtfront was getting sticky from the blood that was soaking through, but Wesley ignored it, concentrating on not jarring her further.  At least she was unconscious and unaware of the pain, although unconscious in his eyes was still not a desired thing.

"And we'll do everything in our power not to have that happen, but right now, hospitals are not an option."

The two Englishmen stared at each other, neither willing to budge on the issue.  While he understood that Giles was the last person to want anything to happen to Willow, Wes wasn't prepared to give up as easily as him.

"Go get the car," he barked to Xander, who was hovering in the alleyway.  He stepped forward and held her out to Giles.  "Stretch her out in the back seat and give me five minutes to make a phone call."  The pause between his order and the release of her weight from his arms seemed interminable, and he silently swore at the older man for stealing precious seconds from Willow's recovery.  "Trust me," he added.

Giles turned cold eyes to Lindsey.  "You have two options, Mr. McDonald.  Stay here and deal with Trick on your own, or come with us, keep your mouth shut, and pray that Spike believes that what you can contribute is worth Willow getting shot."  He didn't wait for an answer, just pivoted on his heel and followed Xander toward the end of the alleyway.

Wesley turned to Faith.  "Are you all right going with them?" he asked.

She nodded.  "I'll even help keep Lindsey boy in line if you want," she replied with a grin.  She brushed past him, and then hesitated.  "Not that I'm one for pitching stones, you know, since I live in my own glass house, but is it worth it?  Giving it up for…her?"

He didn't even hesitate to nod.  "It's more than what you think, Faith," he said.  "There are…extenuating circumstances."

"Oh, I bet."  She jerked her head at Lindsey.  "C'mon, counselor.  Let's go wait for our ride."

Turning around, Wesley started pushing open doors in the back hallway until he found an unoccupied office, then slipped inside and shut it closed behind him.  Two steps took him to the desk, and the phone was in his hand, his fingers flying over the dial.

He glanced down as he waited for the other end to pick up.  Scarlet flowered across his shirt, clinging to his skin, and abstractly he plucked at it, its scent itching his nose.  Would he ever be able to get the smell of her blood out of his head?  Somehow, he doubted it.

Her voice brought his history rushing up in a torrent.  "Jenny Calendar.  Can I help you?" she said.

He didn't even bother introducing himself.  "I need for you to do something for me, Jenny," Wes said.  "Now."

*************

Giles hugged the shadows of the wall, away from the mouth of the alley as he watched the people walk by on the sidewalk.  If it was possible, Willow's skin seemed even paler, and her breathing tore and rasped in spite of her unconscious state.  He was desperately hoping the bullet hadn't managed to nick one of her lungs, although the entrance looked too low for that.  Still, who knew what kind of trajectory it followed once it entered her body.  For all he knew, she was dying in his very arms.

Xander pulling up the car coincided with Wesley's spectral appearance behind him, and both men hastened to get her into the back seat with as little fanfare as possible, ignoring the occasional curious glance from a passerby.  He was about to say something when Wesley pressed a piece of paper into his hand before pulling open the driver side door.

"It's a private hospital," Wes explained as Giles scanned over the scrawled print.  "It gets used for more of the agency's…delicate procedures."

"I'm coming with you," he said, but was stopped short by the door being shut against him.

"You can't get in.  Only those with proper federal identification are allowed inside.  My assistant's made special provisions for Willow to be seen as quickly as possible, but I can assure you, I've had to pull every string I have in order to get that to happen."  Tiredly, Wes rubbed at his eyes.  "I'll leave instruction that you and you alone are to be given updates on her condition if you call, but anyone else will jeopardize Spike's safety.  You need to exercise caution."

"If they find out about Spike---."

"They won't."  His gaze flickered to Lindsey.  "Just make sure you get what Spike needs to know.  I'd hate to think that this was a waste of time."

Pressing his lips together, Giles watched the car pull away from the curb, melding with the traffic in normalcy as if it wasn't rushing a wounded young redhead to the hospital.  Godspeed, he prayed silently.

"I'll get a cab," Xander murmured behind him.  "Are we going to the warehouse or are we doing something else?"

"Let me call Spike," Giles replied.  Action.  Something positive he could do.  Although…he dreaded being the one to relay the news.

*************

He'd thought they'd beat him there, but when Spike let himself into the warehouse and was greeted with the hollow echo of empty walls, he was slightly annoyed at their lateness.  What in bloody hell could be taking so long? he thought as he lounged in the office chair, feet propped up on desk.  Hopefully the lawyer didn't muck things up for them.

Ten minutes later, he'd smoked through two cigarettes and had a third on its way to his lips when the phone's shrill ring pierces the air.  "Lemme guess," he said when he picked up the receiver, "Harris talked you into stopping for donuts."

"Spike."  There was no mirth in Ripper's voice and Spike immediately stilled.  

"What's wrong?"

"It's Willow.  She's…been shot."

It was the last thing he'd expected to hear.  Red was just been back-up; it had been Harris' job to be the front line.  How had the lawyer managed to sneak past him?

"Where's she at?"  Dropping his cigarettes and lighter back into his coat pocket, he stood, body tense and ready to bolt as soon as he got the information he wanted.  "Is she all right?"

There was a sigh at the other end.  "Wesley's taken her to a place called St. Augustus.  It's an abdominal wound, but she was unconscious."

Spike frowned.  "Where the hell is St. Augustus?  I've never heard of it.  Is it new?"

"No, apparently it's the government's answer to not having to answer to the local authorities.  And Willow's been taken there by the man _you_ insisted we trust."

He didn't have time to deal with Ripper's issues.  "Who shot her?  If you tell me it was McDonald---."

"It was one of Trick's men."  And quickly, he relayed the events of the hotel, starting with his initial sighting of Trick and ending with Wesley's departure.  By the time he was done speaking, Spike was back in the chair, his head resting in his free hand, his eyes closed.

"And we've got the contact information to check up on Red?"  His voice was flat.  No exit for the bullet and lots of bleeding didn't bode well for the young woman he'd always regarded as a younger sister, the strong but vulnerable force that had kept his world centered back in California.

"Yes."  Pause.  "Are you saying…you're comfortable with Wesley's decision?  This could very well be a ruse to get to you---."

"Don't you fuckin' say it, Ripper."  Probably too harsh, but at the moment, he didn't care.  "If this doesn't finally prove to you he's on the up and up, I don't know what the hell will."

"What---?"

"He's blown his cover by doin' this, you know.  You told us yourself the word with the higher ups is he's dead, but he's goin' in anyway.  For Red's sake.  Just like he refused to stay behind when you saw Trick go up to the hotel.  And he's right about the other.  Keeping me out of the loop keeps me from behind bars, which is what Red would want regardless of how I might feel about the issue at the moment.  So, if this doesn't clinch it for you…"

He could hear the sounds of traffic in the background as he waited for a response, finally relaxing slightly when he heard the deep sigh.  "What is it you'd like us to do?" Ripper asked quietly, and with those few words, Spike knew that the issue would never be brought up again.  Not even Rupert could delude himself that much.

"Is the lawyer there?"

"Yes."

"Put him on."

The beginning of a headache was pulsing behind Spike's eyes, and he rubbed at them, trying to keep at bay the images of a pale Red stretched out in a coffin.  She's not going to die, he tried assuring himself.  Not with Wesley on the ticket.  But somehow, the words lacked conviction, leaving him feel more drained than he thought possible.

"McDonald here."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't tell Ripper to plug you right now," Spike snarled.  He was tired of messing around, and in his current mood, nothing would give him more pleasure than seeing someone pay for Red's injury.  He'd just find out what he needed another way.

"I thought…I was under the impression you needed me for something."

He had to give the lawyer credit for one thing.  Even faced with the threat of possible death, he wasn't showing any fear, and he wasn't begging.  Maybe this was salvageable after all.

So maybe he'd try another tactic.

"That Lilah dame doesn't like you very much," he commented, this time a little calmer.  "She tried one-upping you today by takin' me in herself."

"Fuck…" Lindsey muttered.

"So, I'm goin' to ask you again.  What good does it do me to keep you around long enough for another of mine to get hurt?"

"Because I'm sick of this shit.  You name what you want and it's yours.  No questions asked.  Just tell me that it means Lilah burns."

His lips twitched.  Good answer.  "Put Ripper back on."  He waited for the handover, knowing that each second was precious for them and wishing they'd hurry it up.

"Well?"

"Take him back to Wesley's hotel and keep an eye on him.  I'll be there in a couple hours."

He knew the slight hesitation before the reply was his friend's attempt to curb his doubts regarding the decision, and closed in eyes in silent relief when a different question was posed.  "What about Faith?"

"Give her the choice of goin'.  Dame's been through a bit of bad luck, none of it she asked for.  If we can help, I'd feel better about it all."

"Right."  Pause.  "I'm sure she'll be all right, Spike.  We have to believe that."

There was no doubt he was referring to Red again, and Spike sighed.  "I know," he said, and this time did nothing to hide the ache in his voice.  "Just wish…well, you know what I wish."

"I know."

He didn't linger after he returned the receiver to its cradle.  No reason to dawdle around the warehouse when the others wouldn't show.  Ghosts lurked in the corners, and he didn't have the strength right then to try and ward them away.  It was rough enough savaging the ones from his past; the possibility that Red might be joining that number was more than he was prepared to deal with at the moment.

He needed to be reminded of life.  He needed that now.

*************

Lindsey ignored the curious stare from the cab driver in the rearview mirror, and allowed his eyes to glaze as he leaned back into the seat, the firm pressure of Xander and Giles' arms on either side of him pinning him in place.  Not that he needed impetus to stay put.  After the ruckus with Trick and Spike's revelation about Lilah---old client, his ass---his mind was made up.  Sticking with Wolfram and Hart was only going to get him killed, and his mama did not raise a stupid boy.  Time to pull up his stakes.

"Isn't it almost lunchtime?" Xander asked.

"You can wait until we get to the hotel," Giles replied tersely.

Food.  Which requires money.  And the planning began to coagulate inside Lindsey's head.

"Can we make a detour?" he asked of the Englishman.

His request was met with an immediate frown.  "You're in no position to be asking anything. You're not so thick not to see that, are you?"

"I'm also not currently in a position to be paying for anything.  If you swing by my bank, I can empty my account before my employers put a freeze on my assets.  They'll do that once they find out, you know.  And I'm not really looking forward to being on the nut."

The only sound was the honking of a car behind them.  Finally, Giles said, "Five minutes.  And you're not going in alone.  I'm not in the mood for monkey business right about now."

As he directed the driver, Lindsey kept his relief from showing on his face.  He had enough saved up to last him for awhile; maybe it was time to go home, set up a private practice.  Be his own man.  Nice thought.

*************

They took her from his arms as soon as he stepped through the doors, stretching her out on the gurney, and Wesley felt the hollowness continue to creep through his body without the reminder of her weight pressed against him.

"Registration is over there," the orderly at her feet said, nodding at the counter to Wes' left before starting to push Willow away.

"Wait."  He stepped forward so that he was level with her head, and reached down to brush back the hair from her face.  She'd never woken up, which he knew wasn't a good sign, but he couldn't allow himself to dwell on those ramifications, not when there was work to be done.  "Be strong," he murmured.  So pale.  So small.

Trick was going to pay.  Slow disembowelment would be too kind of a punishment.

And then she was gone, disappearing down the antiseptic hallway in silence, only the soft padding of the orderlies footsteps echoing to his ears.  With his lips pressed tight, he turned and walked to the counter, pulling out his identification for the woman who sat behind it.  He glanced at her nametag.  _Hope_.  Maybe it was a sign.

"My assistant called ahead," he said, showing her his card.

"Yes.  Miss Calendar said it was a gunshot wound with no exit evidence, so there's an operating room all prepped and ready to go."  She pulled a thin file from the top of a stack, as if she'd had it waiting for him.  "Name?"

"Willow Rosenberg."

"Your relationship to the patient?"

How did he answer that one?  Not like he wanted to.  "Friend."

"Known allergies?"

"I don't know."

"Was she shot in the line of duty?"

"She's not a federal employee."

"But were you conducting business when she was injured?"

Not the kind I can tell you about, he thought.  "No."

Hope frowned.  "Then why didn't you take her to one of the local hospitals instead?"  She paused, suddenly wary.  "You weren't the one who shot her, were you?"

"No!"  His vehemence made her jump, and she quickly looked back to her paperwork while he fought to regain his composure.  "Will that make a difference on whether or not she's treated?" he said, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the counter.

She shook her head.  "It's your call, sir.  The only ones able to question the authenticity of your claim for her treatment would be your supervisors."

Exhaling, Wesley's tension eased slightly.  That was a bridge he'd cross when the time came for it.  His bosses he could deal with; the cops, he could not.

*************

She looked up from her paperwork when the knock rattled her door.  "Come in!" Kate called, and smiled when she saw Riley poke his head through.  "You're looking better this morning," she said, and gestured toward the empty chair.

"No time," he replied.  "I thought you were going to leave me the information on the lawyer Faith hired."

"I did."

"It's not on my desk."

"But I left it there last night."  Frowning, she thought back to the previous evening, reliving walking up to his desk…setting her notes carefully on the middle of his blotter…walking away to go home.  "Ask the officer who was there.  He saw me do it."

"Who was it?"

Kate shook her head.  "I can never remember his name.  Dark hair, kind of creepy?"  She brightened.  "Oh!  He was the one whose girlfriend fell down the stairs last year."

Unconsciously, Riley straightened, stepping inside her office.  "Meers?" he said.

"That's it," she replied, smiling.  "I don't know why I can never remember his moniker.  But he was at his desk.  Maybe he saw the cleaning people clear it off or something."  Picking up a piece of paper, she scribbled down the notes she'd left for him and held it out.  "Here it is again, though.  His name, where he's staying.  There's not a lot."

His first glance at the paper was cursory, but when he looked up at her, he hesitated, his gaze slowly returning to the sheet to read it more thoroughly.  "Word's out that there was some shooting at this hotel just a little while ago," he finally said.  "Kind of a coincidence, don't you think?"

She was already grabbing her coat.  "I'll check it out," Kate said.  "It's probably got nothing to do with Wilkins but you can't show your mug down there until we know for sure.  It's not our neighborhood."

"Thanks.  Let me know what you find.  I'm going to go have a word with Meers.  I don't like this case information going missing.  If we've got a mole, I want to know about it."

Kate laughed.  "You've been watching too many movies," she teased as she stepped outside.  "I'm sure it's nothing, and you've got it now, right?"

"Right."  But something in his tone said that it wasn't.

*************

Standing in the shadows at the side of the altar, Buffy watched the priest address the throng crammed into the seats of the church, unexpected tears pricking her eyes.  They weren't for Richard Wilkins.  They were for the buried bodies of her mother and sister back in California, for the funerals she hadn't been able to attend because of her own hospitalization.

It wasn't a response that she hadn't anticipated as a possibility.  Dealing with the idea of death was one thing; seeing it staring you in the face was another entirely.  It was different when it was a stranger.  They allowed distance, the ability to close the door on her emotions and pretend that it was just a body, that it hadn't been a real person.

But Mr. Wilkins had been real.  And her mother and Dawn had been real.

And now they weren't.

I can't lose it now, she thought, and blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear her vision.  I have to sing.  I have to make it good.  I have to make Mom proud.

"Buffy…"

It was a breath on the air, hushed and haunting and for a moment she thought she'd imagined it.  When it repeated though, this time slightly louder, she frowned, and glanced back over her shoulder at the door that led to the priest's offices.

Where before it had been closed, now it was ajar.  And in the crack stood Spike's unmistakable shadow.

Pulse accelerating, Buffy glanced at the front row where Angel sat and watched the service.  His attention appeared to be rapt, and slowly, she inched herself backward, ducking further into the murk that clouded the edges of the altar, closing the two feet that separated her from Spike silently.

As soon as she was in touching distance, his hand snaked out and curled around her wrist.  "Come with me," he whispered.

She never took her eyes off Angel.  "Are you crazy?" she whispered back.  "I haven't sung yet, and do you know how many people are out there right now with guns in their belts?  Do you have a death wish that maybe I should know about?"

Silence, but his hand never let go.  Instead, it dawned on her she could feel the slightest of vibrations of his grip shaking, as if he was trembling.  Is he scared? she wondered.  Why did he show up here if he was worried about being caught?

"Come," he repeated.  "I…need you.  Please."

His voice was still barely audible, but the need in it made her muscles weep.  "What's wrong?" she asked, and dared to look back at him.

Eyes still in shadow, she could've sworn that they were gleaming.  "Red's been shot."

The announcement sluiced through her.  Willow?  Shot?  The bright memory of the redhead's smile flashed across her mind's eye, and she stole one last look at the congregation.

I'm sorry, Angel, she thought, and slipped through the doorway, taking Spike's hand and following him out the back of the church.

Because there was only one man who truly needed her, and right now, his soul was breaking.  She wasn't about to turn her back on that.

Or him.

To be continued in Chapter 33: Through Stormy Weather…


	33. Through Stormy Weather

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Wesley has taken Willow to a private hospital for treatment, Giles is taking Lindsey back to the hotel at Spike's request, and Spike has picked up Buffy from the Mayor's funeral to take her away…

*************

He only released her long enough to shut her door and walk around to the driver's side of the car.  As soon as Spike had swung the Desoto out of the alley behind the church, his hand was outstretched, searching for hers, trembling fingers lacing through hers as he stared straight ahead of him and guided them through the traffic.

All thoughts of the funeral were banished from Buffy's mind as she watched him drive in silence.  Shadows seemed to have sprung from nowhere under his eyes, hollow and spectral, making his chiseled features almost ghoulish in their gauntness.  Like a ghost of himself already, she thought, and unconsciously tightened her grip, as if that would root him in her reality instead of fading away.

"You have no idea how badly I want a drink right about now," Spike said quietly.  "Get myself smoked and just tell everyone they can go climb their bloody thumbs.  Sod the lot of 'em."

He didn't mean it, she knew.  Well, he didn't mean the last part of it.  From what he'd told her, getting drunk had been his answer to everything in the five years he'd lived in California.  Carefully, her gaze flickered to the floor, scanning for any signs of brown paper or the edge of a whiskey bottle, but came up empty.

"Don't need it, though," Spike said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, catching her faint blush at being seen.  Gently, he squeezed her fingers, the heat of his palm forging with hers.  "Got you instead."

"We should go to the hospital," she murmured.  "Even if we can't see Willow, the others---."

"Can't."  His eyes were back on the road, the ache back in his voice.  "Wesley took her to some private place to keep the coppers out of it.  I show my mug around there, and everything's a bust.  This whole trip'll have been for biscuits and I'm not about to let Red down that way."

"So…where are we going then?"

They coasted to a stop at the red light, and he fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, tapping it against the steering wheel to jar one loose and raising it to his lips.  "Someplace from the old days," he said around the filter, and dropped the pack between them before fishing for his lighter.  The flame jumped, making his eyes a transient amber, and Buffy's throat tightened at the bleakness that briefly mirrored there.  "Someplace where I can just…where we can…get a spot of peace for a few hours."

She only nodded.  If he'd told her they were hopping on a plane and flying to Africa, she would've followed if it would mean easing the sorrow and self-directed anger simmering beneath his skin.  Whatever it took to help him deal with Willow's injury, she would be there for him.

Praying that it didn't destroy him in the process.

*************

"…amen."

Angel held the bowed position for a few extra seconds than he normally would, not even deigning to sneak a peek out of the corner of his eye to see if anyone else was watching.  He knew they were.  After all, he was the grieving son.  A couple more moments for him to finish his prayers for his dead father were to be expected.

And made him look good at the same time.

Lifting his head, Angel tightened his lips in an attempt to refrain from smiling.  The one part of this whole charade that he'd actually been looking forward to was coming up next; he didn't need to look at the program folded in his hands to know that.  Casually, he allowed his gaze to slide from the priest at the lectern to the shadows at the side of the altar, where he knew Buffy was waiting to go on.

Except…she wasn't there.

Immediately, he frowned.  That wasn't right.  She'd just been there; he'd seen her standing there himself.  But now, the door to the priest's offices stood slightly ajar, darkness from the hallway beyond masking any closer inspection.

When he'd turned back to the front, he caught the clergyman's eye, knowing that he was just aware of Buffy's non-presence as he was.  Discreetly, Angel shook his head, and sighed as he leaned to his left, turning his head just enough to whisper into the ear of the man sitting next to him.  "Go find Buffy," he instructed, not waiting for him to rise before settling back in the pew.

This wasn't like her.  Then again, she'd been very unlike herself for the past few days.  Ever since she'd accepted his proposal, in fact.  Ever since…

Not a granule of emotion showed itself on his face, but inside, his blood curdled with the connection his brain had made.

Ever since Rook hit town.

Teaming up with Robin Wood had seemed like a genius arrangement in the beginning---someone on the outside to keep the suspicion away from him, making only a small concession in territory to pay for it---but the other man's obsession with using William Rook for the job was costing far more dearly than Angel had ever reckoned, and the supposition that Wood was going to have to pay for that vendetta was becoming more truth with each passing hour.   After this was all over, something fatal was going to have to happen to the Harlem mob boss to make up for the nightmare that was developing.

But he had to get rid of Rook first, and he was beginning to believe that Wood wasn't up to the job.  As much as he hated to do it, he was going to have to put a man or two on Buffy.  Angel had a feeling that she would lead him straight to the bastard.

*************

Riley's fingers flipped through the photographs taken at Faith's apartment as he cradled the phone in the crook of his shoulder.  Nothing, nothing, and still more nothing.  The hit was as clean as anything he'd ever seen, and as much as he hated to admit, he had a grudging respect for Rook for being so efficient about it.  Not that he condoned murder, far from it, but that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate a professional when he saw it.

The ringing on the other end of the line was strangled mid-third, and a sleepy voice came through.  "Hello?"

"Meers?" he queried, dropping the pictures to the top of his well-worn desk.  "This is Finn."

"Oh."  Was that an edge of wariness that had crept into his voice?  "Is there a problem?  It's my day off, you know.  I kind of had other plans if you needed me to---."

"No, it's not anything you have to come in for," Riley assured.  "I just had a question I needed to ask."  He began doodling in the corner of the paper he'd taken from Kate, tracing the lawyer's name.  "Last night.  Did you see anything…funny?  Odd?  Maybe…cleaning crew poking around where they shouldn't?"

Pause.  "Nah.  Last night was dead quiet.  Not a peep."

His pen froze in mid-stroke.  "Nothing?  Anybody other than officers poke their mug in?"

"Nope.  It was just me all night."  Meers laughed.  "Trust me, I would've killed for a little company.  I was so bored, I ended up talking to my mother half the night on the phone."

"OK.  Thanks."

"That's it?"

"Yeah.  I'll…see you when you get in tonight."

His face was creased into a frown as he replaced the phone in its cradle.  Someone was lying to him, and given the choice between Meers and Kate, he'd peg Kate as the truthteller any day of the week.  It was just the question of why Warren would see the need to deceive Riley that had to be answered now.

Slowly, he picked up the nearest of the photographs again, staring at the black and white and shades of gray until the edges started to blur, the texture of the carpet began to bleed through the paper.  He was missing something here; he could practically feel it itching around the edges of his awareness like a cockroach scuttling away from the light.  A detail from the crime scene maybe.  Something forensics had overlooked.

Except forensics never overlooked anything.  Meers was too damn smart to---.

Meers again.

At the crime scene.

The one Graham had left in charge of the missing witness.

The one who'd just claimed Kate had never showed her face last night.

Might be nothing.  Then again…it could very well be everything.

Picking up his phone again, Riley dialed the extension he wanted before picking up the photos, squaring the edges before sliding them neatly back into the file.  "It's Officer Finn," he identified when the other line was picked up.  "I need a report on all the incoming phone calls to the precinct last night."  He paused, glancing over at Meers' empty desk.  "Toss in the outgoing, too.  And keep this on the QT.  It could be crucial to an ongoing investigation."

*************

The fact that he was the only one in the small waiting room was perfectly fine by Wes.  Solitude afforded him the luxury of debating his options, most of which left him cold and wondering how in the world he'd managed to drive himself into such a tight corner.  The events of the past few days blurred in a frenzied rush of laughter, gunshots, and scarlet, leaving him both exhilarated and exhausted, but it was the time that was ticking by in an operating room only a few feet away that was proving the most draining.  

His time in New York was over; there was no escaping that fact now.  And while he'd hoped that his decampment would lead crosscountry, the events of the morning most likely predicated a return further south instead.  Back to his office in DC.  As a failure because he'd wasted three years and a good portion of his resources trying to catch a man who was now beyond his reach.

I'll most certainly be buried in paperwork, he thought grimly.  Fieldwork will be considered beyond my capabilities, and Jenny will likely be laughed at for having associated with me for so long.  

But the thing of it was, if it meant Willow would walk out of this facility whole and healthy, it would be worth it.  How she'd respond to his change of status, he had no idea, though he didn't believe she would care.  He didn't think she'd walk away from Spike, though, and provided Rook walked away from this current debacle free and clear, it was inevitable he would return to California.

Which meant Willow would go there as well.

The obvious solution was to quit completely.  Follow her wherever she went for as long as she let him.  Before his decision to bring her to St. Augustus, that would've been possible.  Now, it bordered on the fantastic.

Treatment required payment, and Wesley held no illusions that his employers would demand it in full.  In that world, remuneration didn't necessarily need to be cash, but in light of his failure to bring the Mayor to justice, he had no other bargaining chips with which to jockey for his freedom.  A small voice in the back of his head whispered Spike's name, but he swiftly silenced it.  Absolutely not.  Not even a consideration.  Not after everything he'd done to promote his allegiance to the man, and certainly not with how Willow felt about him.

Which left only one other option.  Himself.

The soft swish of footsteps in the hall caused him to lift his head just in time to see the door whisper open.  "Mr. Wyndham-Pryce?" the young man standing in the entrance said.

He immediately stood.  "Is it done?  Is she all right?"

Holding up his hands to prevent Wesley from speaking more, the young man said, "Your friend's still in surgery.  I was just sent out here to give you an update.  They said…you were a little upset."

That would be an understatement, Wes thought, but inhaled deeply to calm his rising temper.  "So?" he finally prompted.  "What _can_ you tell me?"

"Well, first of all, good news is, she seems to be stable.  The bullet was a twenty-two, and clearly shot from a distance, which is why it wasn't powerful enough to punch through the other side---."  He abruptly stopped at the flare of anger in Wesley's aspect, and cleared his throat. "It did, however, do a fair amount of damage internally, perforating her small intestine in several spots.  That's what the doctor's attributing her bleeding to.  There looked to be some risk that it had nicked the lower lobe of her left kidney, but that proved to be false."

Briefly, his eyes fluttered shut as his head dropped.  Stable.  That was good news…and his head immediately shot back up.  "You said that was the _good_ news.  That infers there's bad."

The young man thrust his hands into his pockets under Wesley's direct stare.  "If she comes through the operation---."

"If?  What do you mean, if?"

"She's lost a lot of blood, and stitching her back up is proving…tricky.  Extracting the bullet was difficult without incurring further damage, so the doctors are taking their time with it.  She's most likely going to be in there for several more hours, and then under intensive supervision in post-op for a lot more after that."  His dark eyes darted over Wes' bloodstained shirt.  "It would be understandable if you wanted to go home and clean yourself up.  We can call you when---."

"No."  He held himself straight, jaw squared.  "I'm staying.  She has no idea where she is.  She's going to need a familiar face when she wakes up."

His use of the word "when" did not go unnoticed by the young man, and he nodded as if in agreement, though doubt lingered in his eyes.  "Of course, sir," he said, and stepped back.  "If you find yourself needing anything, just let Hope at the front desk know.  There's a small kitchen if you get hungry, or Hope can make arrangements to get something delivered in if you want."

"Good."  Wes had half-turned away when he stopped, glancing back to add, "And thank you."

Alone again, the hope that had flared at the news dissipated in the light of the entire story, and he sank into his seat, his face just as grim as before.  Concentrate on the fact that she's stable, he pushed himself, but the ghost of her blood's scent still tickled his nose, and his eyes drifted shut, his head falling back onto the cushion.  The frenzy had just frozen into a chilling collage, and now all he could see was her wan face cradled in his arms as her blood stained his clothes.

_Stable stable stable…_

Perhaps I should call Giles, he thought.  He'll want to know what's going on.  

_And tell him what?_ a small voice argued back.  _There's nothing definitive, and you'll only cause him to worry more.  And you don't know the phone number for the warehouse anyway.  He and Spike may be there for hours yet._

I'll wait, he decided.  Giles will call, and I'll be able to tell him what I know then.

_And hopefully…it'll be good news._

*************

Buffy didn't say a word as he led her past the sprinklings of flowers, her eyes jumping from the looming angels, to the tidy urns, to the occasional chipped headstone angled in the soil.  It wasn't until he came to a stop before a large mausoleum, standing on tiptoe to feel around the upper lintel, that she spoke up.

"When you said someplace peaceful," she said, "I figured, a park…a museum maybe.  Could even have been the library."  She shook her head, a small smile on her lips as his fingers curled around a key and he unlocked the crypt's door.  "You will never cease to amaze me, Spike."

The door squeaked from disuse, screaming out in the still of the cemetery, sending chills down Buffy's spine.  He seemed oblivious to the dissonance, stepping into the gloom as if it was home, leaving her no choice but to follow after.  She sneezed almost immediately upon crossing the threshold, the dust their steps kicked into the air clogging in her nose.

"Sorry 'bout that," Spike murmured.  He was a breathing shadow when he paused to look back at her.  "Guess I'm the only one who ever bothered to come in here.  And I haven't been here in a very long time."

"And here would be…where?" she asked.  Blinking against the dark, her eyes quickly adjusted, and she saw the pair of stone biers housed within the ten-foot square, the varying stone plaques set into the wall opposite.  She couldn't read the names, but quickly decided she liked it better that way.  If he told her this was the resting place of one of his victims and he came here for penance, she didn't know what she would say.

He was standing in front of the placard-covered wall, staring at a small marble inlay a few inches above his head.  "Found this place when I first came to New York," he said quietly, as if raising his voice would somehow disturb the dead.  "It was before Dru stepped into the picture.  A group of scabbies took to chasin' me through the streets and I managed to lose them by hidin' in here.  Stayed in here overnight that first time, and caught hell with Old Man Conti when I turned up the next day.  After that, I started comin' down when I needed someplace to sort my head out, or fancied a few minutes away from Dru's prattling."

She didn't know what to say to him, could only watch as he seemed to float in front of the wall, his pale head snagging what little light filtered through the dirty, stained glass windows.  The far-off scritching of insects---spiders, probably---raised the hair on the back of her neck, and Buffy took a step closer to him, hugging her arms close to her body.

"Is that why we're here now?" she asked.

Her question seemed to draw him back from whatever dream plane he'd been walking, and Spike looked back at her over his shoulder.  An apologetic frown marred his brow.  "Sorry 'bout that, pet," he said, and crossed the distance to wrap her into his chest.  "I get these ideas, and I guess I'm just not used to the notion that there's someone who might be interested in hearin' them now."

He was so warm against her cheek, his heart a reassuring cadence that resonated through her entire body.  Buffy's eyes closed, forgetting where she was as she let her arms steal around his back.  He didn't think Willow was going to die, did he? she wondered.  Is that why we're hanging out in a graveyard?

It was as if he sensed her thoughts.  "Never really thought of it as a cemetery after a bit," he said.  One hand was stroking the side of her neck, tugging at the pins that held her chignon in place.  "But then, that was because of Dru."  He pulled away then, taking her hand and leading her to the place before the wall where he'd been standing.

As she felt her hair falling against her shoulders, Buffy followed the line of his sight to look up at the marble plaque half-covered in dust.  It was hard to read in the dim light, but when she squinted, she could just make out the surname.  __

_Rook._

She turned wide eyes up to him.  "Who is it?" she asked.

Spike shook his head.  "It's not actually anyone," he explained.  "Just the plaque."  Reaching up, his long fingers brushed aside the worst of the cobwebs, exposing the first name to the musty air, and he waited as he watched her read it again.

"Anne was your mother's name," she whispered, transfixed by the small rectangle.

His hand had dropped to the small of her back, strong and soothing as his thumb traced the base of her spine through her dress.  "For the first few years after, I used to fly back to England on the anniversary of her death to visit.  Once Dru and me became an item, she saw that as too much time spent away from her, so she had the plaque made up and suggested I put it someplace local so that I could visit it more regular-like."  Every word was heavy, though his voice was barely above a whisper.  "This seemed like the only proper place to put it."

It was all too much.  The tears slipped down Buffy's cheeks, silent remembrances of too many dead that day, silvery trails left in their wake.  The Mayor.  _Dawn._  Anne Rook.  _Mom._

When her head dropped, though, Spike immediately looked down at her, his hand deserting her back to brush away the damp from her cheeks.  "Don't cry, luv," he said.  "Wasn't s'posed to be about makin' us feel worse."

In spite of herself, she laughed at the absurdity of his statement.  "We're in a crypt, Spike," she said.  "After leaving a funeral and getting news about Willow being shot.  How is this not worse?"

"I never saw this joint like that," he said.  "This was about freedom, and not bein' afraid.  I used to…"  He looked away then, as if afraid of how she was going to construe his words.  "Know it sounds daft, but I used to come and talk to her.  When things got…bad.  And it always made me feel better somehow.  And today…today's a good day for lookin' for better, in my book."

For a long moment, she just watched him, studied the aquiline sculpture of his profile, the muscles twitching in his jaw, and in the long shadows of the mausoleum, with the smell of yesteryear lingering on the air, saw the ghost of the child he had been, the young adult he'd grown into…and the man he now was.  The tears stopped, banished with the understanding of just what he'd done, and Buffy reached forward to grace his cheek with the lightest of touches.

"You're a good man, William Rook," she murmured, and was rewarded with a tilt of his head, his eyes glinting curiously in the dim illumination.  "Your mother would be proud."

The corner of his mouth lifted.  "She'd've loved you," he commented.  "Though she probably would've fussed about you bein' too thin."

Her gurgle of surprise was accompanied by a playful slap to his arm, prompting his chuckle to echo throughout the crypt.  Taking her by the hand, he led her over to the nearest bier, wiping off the dust from the end and laying his coat over it to protect her from being further mussed.  "Do you mind?" he asked, hesitating.  "I thought…it would be nice to just…talk."

She answered him by hopping as gracefully as she could onto the stone, crossing her ankles as they dangled over the side.  "Am I going to get to hear more stories about young William?" she teased.  Now that she understood, it seemed perfectly natural to be where they were.  For him, this was about safety, about shelter, about…home.  And her heart was swelling with pleasure at being included in that circle.

"Only the good bits," he replied, and settled himself next to her.  In the chill of the crypt, his hand was warm as it laced through hers.  "And if you're real lucky, maybe I'll get maudlin enough to tell you some of my bloody awful poetry."

Buffy smiled.  "I could think of worse ways to spend my afternoon."

To be continued in Chapter 34: The Turning Point… 


	34. The Turning Point

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Willow is being operated on at a private hospital with Wesley waiting to ensure she's all right, Lindsey has been taken to Wesley's hotel to wait for Spike, and Spike has taken Buffy to one of his thinking places to help sort out his feelings about Willow's getting shot…

*************

As Spike leaned against the wall of the elevator, instead of watching the numbers tick by over the closed door as he normally would, his gaze was riveted by the slender line of Buffy's neck as she stood nestled against him, the tiny golden hairs that still managed to escape the chignon she'd redone in the car making his fingers itch to pull out the pins again.  Though he was far from being content about the current situation, his mood was improved, his head clearer.  Funny what a few hours of just talking could do for a bloke.

It was better than getting drunk.  No hangover.  No waking up in clothes that really should've been washed three days prior.  No aversion to daylight piercing his eyeballs.  'Course, he couldn't really say those kind of thoughts out loud to her; somehow, as big of a deal as it was to him, he wasn't convinced Buffy would be as charmed by the comparison.

Still, she hadn't turned into a bluenose about spending her afternoon hanging out in a crypt.  That scored even more points in her favor.  As many years that he'd spent spilling to Red, Spike still thought she'd go all queasy at the prospect of chatting around dead people.  The fact that he could spend time with Buffy and just _be_, without it ending with them in bed together, convinced him even more that they were meant for each other.

Unbidden, his hand came up and brushed aside the stray tendril curling down her nape.  "Next time, I take you someplace a spot more romantic, luv," he murmured.  "Someplace where you don't have to pull the cobwebs from your hair after."

She sighed as she leaned back against his chest.  "Oh, I don't know," she said.  "It has its own Bela Lugosi kind of charm about it.  I'm glad you shared it with me."

His head dropped, his nose buried in her hair.  "Maybe Italy," he mused.  "Haven't been there in a blue moon."  Images of Buffy basking in the Italian sunshine---wearing something white, he decided---brought a smile to his face, a warmth surging in his belly.  Europe was sounding better and better every minute.

"Spike."  The playfulness was gone from her voice, and he felt her fingers begin tracing random patterns across the back of his hands where they were looped around her waist.  "I still have to deal with Angel, you know.  Me running was not good."

As effective as a bucket of cold water.  "Don't s'pose askin' to go a day without bringing up his name is so much," he joked, though his grip tensed around her.  

"There's going to be…questions.  Why I left.  I _really_ don't want to face him about this.  He's going to be hurt I blew the funeral."

"So don't go back."

"I still have his ring.  I can't just keep it."

"Could sell it.  A rock that size could finance half a world tour, methinks."

In spite of herself, she giggled, and Spike relaxed his arms.  Around them, the elevator glided to a stop, the doors sliding open to reveal the hotel's elegant hallway.  He had a feeling her decision about what to do with Wilkins was about to be made a helluva lot easier.  Only a few feet away, Ripper waited with the lawyer, and Spike was going to get the answers he needed to put an end to this mess.

He just hoped it didn't break her heart to hear the truth.

*************

It was a motley group that greeted him when Spike stepped through the door.  On the couch, Lindsey sat uncomfortably with Harris perched on the coffee table opposite him, acting as a guard dog with a gun dangling from his fingers.  Ripper's frown was expected, but the bruises and cuts that adorned Faith's were not, and he filed away the question on finding out what had happened to the brunette for later consideration.

Right now, he had more important things he wanted to talk about.

"Well, lookee what the cat dragged in," he drawled, coming to stand before Lindsey.  Quickly, Xander rose to his feet, passing over the gun while Spike took his place on the table.

"Funny," Lindsey commented.  "I thought I came on my own accord."

Cool eyes flickered over the lawyer.  Smaller than he'd expected, for the balls he'd imagined him having for being behind such an arrangement.  Then again, he'd had his own share of "You're not as tall as I thought you'd be" over the years.  "You're here because I _want_ you here," Spike replied.  "And you're breathing because _I_ let that happen."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Buffy circle around the furniture to stand behind him, and bit back his smile when he saw the first flash of surprise on McDonald's face.  So, still capable of being on the defensive.  That was good.

"I'm sure we can come to some sort of mutual understanding," Lindsey said.  "One that's beneficial to both of us."

"Yeah.  You tell me what I want, you get to live.  Sounds mutually beneficial to me."

Lindsey's face hardened.  "You told me Lilah would pay for what she's done."

"Actually, I believe _you're_ the one who mentioned that Lilah dame.  Burning, was it?"  He smiled, raising the gun to his face and pretending to sight down the barrel.  "Got a bit of a nasty streak in you, McDonald, don't you?"  He held the weapon level for a long moment before lowering it back to his lap.  "I think I like that."

His composure was cracking, and he risked leaning forward to stare into Spike's eyes.  "And I _don't_ think I like _you_," he bit out.  "You always struck me as man of action, Mr. Rook.  Why waste your time with all the talk?"

"Entertainment's not always a waste," he shot back.  Spike's grin widened.  "You got moxie.  That's why you're still kickin'."  Carefully, he opened the chamber and emptied the bullets onto the carpet with a soft thud.

From the doorway, Ripper warned, "Spike…"

"Just showin' the mouthpiece here I'm more interested in business than pleasure at the moment," he replied.  Tossing the gun to the side, he didn't even acknowledge Xander's easy catch, his eyes locked with Lindsey's.  "You want action?  Fine.  You tell me who you're workin' for.  I'll show you all the action you want by slitting his throat and then stringin' him up by his toes to let him bleed to death.  And just to make it worth your while, I might even be able to swing setting that Lilah up for the fall."

"You could do that?" Lindsey blurted, and then closed his eyes, shaking his head.  "What the hell am I saying?  Look who I'm talking to.  Of course, you could do it."

"So?  We got a deal?"

Spike frowned, when the lawyer hesitated and opened his eyes to glance at Buffy hovering behind the blond.   "Maybe…this might be better if it's kept private," Lindsey said slowly.

"There's nobody in this room who doesn't have my complete trust.  Well, 'cept for you, that is."  Briefly, he considered the fact that Faith was somewhere behind him as well, and mentally shrugged.  She'd gone to Wesley for help, right?  _The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that rubbish_, he decided.  Just leave it be for now.

This time, his eyes remained glued to Buffy.  "Then you're not nearly as smart as I thought you were, Mr. Rook."

"She's good.  Now spill.  Who set me up?"

The silence that followed his query itched across his skin, and Spike leaned back on his hands to fight the urge to clench them into fists and smash them into the tosser's face.  "You're asking for trouble," Lindsey finally said.

"No, I think I'm asking for a name.  Stop.  Stalling."

With a heavy sigh, he leaned back into the couch.  "What you want is _two_ names.  You were hired by a partnership."

Spike's eyes flickered to meet with Ripper's, and the note of satisfaction he saw gleaming there was all he needed.  Guess Angel's little tart was right about that particular fact, he thought.  Let's hope we're right about the other.

"Partners just means double my fun," he said.  His tongue curled under his teeth, delight gleaming in his aspect.  Reluctance to want to speak in front of Buffy was almost confirmation of their suspicions.  He just wanted the name out there for real so that he had every right in the world to take him down.  Buffy would just have to understand.

"I've only ever dealt with one of them," Lindsey continued.  "And even then, usually only through an intermediary."

"Mr. Trick," offered Ripper.

"Exactly."

"Don't tell me that means you don't know their names," Spike drawled.

"No."  He took in a deep breath.  "The names you want are Angel Wilkins and Robin Wood."

It wasn't the first that lay waste to his mobility; he'd long ago accepted hearing that one as a given.  No, it was the latter, the unforeseen revenant from his past, that guillotined his spirit, fixing him to his seat as he gaped at the lawyer in disbelief.  He barely even heard Buffy excuse herself, or saw her scurry to the bathroom with her purse in hand.  _Wood_.  Fitting, that.  The symmetry of it was almost beautiful.

"OK, Wilkins?  Not so much of a surprise, but that other guy…"  Xander scratched at his head, puzzled.  "I've got this funny feeling that there should be bells a-ringing, but this noggin of mine is pretty much bell-free.  Anyone care to share?"

Ripper's voice was muted.  "Nikki Wood," he prompted as he strode forward to stand by Spike.

"Nikki…?" Harris started to question, and then stopped, understanding smoothing his brow.  "Oh.  Wow.  That's just…wow."

"Are you all right?" Ripper asked.  His query was directed at Spike, his tone concerned.

"I'm assuming this Robin Wood means something to you then," Lindsey commented.

"Yeah."  The word was scarcely a breath.  "Big brother of a dame I knew back in the day."

"But Wood doesn't _have_ any family.  Not by blood, anyway."

Spike's eyes were bleak.  "Not any more."

Letting out a low whistle, Lindsey shook his head.  "I'm beginning to think I chose the wrong side here," he said.  "Because with two family heads after you and one of them with a vendetta like that?  You're a dead man, Mr. Rook."

"Two?"  Giles frowned.  "You never said anything, Spike."

"Well, didn't rightly know the topic of Nikki's familial associations was something that was goin' to come up, now did I?"  He stood abruptly and began pacing the length of the room in front of the fireplace, kicking at the edge of the alpaca rug when it tangled in his feet on his first pass.  "Fuck, Ripper, it took me two bottles of scotch just to get the nerve to tell you the bare bones of the story.  You think I was ready to go into the whole whys and wherefores of how the hell I ended up out there in the first place?  Besides, the Woods were only minor players back then.  One tiny corner of Harlem."

"Well, that's changed," Lindsey said.  "Robin Wood is now the primary force behind the scenes of almost every Harlem business, legal or otherwise.  And partnered up with Wilkins, they're a formidable team.  You're going to have your work cut out for you."

He didn't have the capacity to argue with him at the moment.  The thought of taking on Angel had been surprisingly simple, but tossing Wood into the mix left him adrift in the guilt of why he'd left New York in the first place.  _Eye for an eye_.  How could he begrudge the man his revenge when he might've done the exact same thing in his position?

Especially when part of Spike thought he just might owe Wood a piece of himself to make up for what he took away.

He stopped his pacing, gripping the edge of the mantle to stare into the fireplace, memories of cocoa skin and laughter and blood wafting back from its bowels to slap him in the face, as if to remind him---no, to _scold_ him for ever truly forgetting.  He didn't deserve it.  He should never have thought he could.

Ripper's hand came down to rest on his shoulder, a warm weight that radiated down his back to shield his spine.  "We can do this," he said quietly.  "We've faced tougher situations before."

"Right," Spike drawled.  His eyes closed, but it did nothing to block out the images.  "Everything will be just fine and dandy."

*************

She almost wondered if anything was ever going to be fine again.  Though Spike and Wesley had both tried to tell her, and though she'd been trying to cope with the possibility for the better part of the last twenty-four hours, hearing it confirmed by an independent third party---one who'd obviously not trusted saying it in her presence without Spike's insistence---made Buffy's stomach rile, driving her feet to flee to the privacy of the bathroom.  

She was stupid.  How could she have let herself get in so deep that she couldn't see the kind of man Angel had become?  How could she be so blind?

Her hands were shaking as she splashed water onto her face, lifting her head to gaze at her reflection in the mirror.  Portrait of a fool, she thought, staring at her pale skin.  That would be me.  Capital F, capital ool.  Just give me a jester's cap and the picture will be complete.

A small knock at the door rattled her nerves, and she steeled herself to whatever wanted to spy on her.  "Luv?" Spike called out softly.  "You all right in there?"

"Just fine," she replied, and turned to blindly fumble with the knob, pulling it open enough to allow him to slip inside.  Their eyes met, desolate twins seeking to share their pain, and before she knew it, she was nuzzled against his chest, her cheek pressed so tight against him that she could hear his heartbeat.  He was so warm, singeing and burning into her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the rampaging images of Angel that kept threatening to overtake her.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," she whispered.

"Ssshhh," he soothed.  A strong hand came up to caress her exposed cheek.  "Doesn't matter."

"Here."  Tearing tore away from him, Buffy grabbed her purse from the counter and yanked out a small ring box.  "My decision about this just got a whole lot easier."  She pressed it into his hand, avoiding meeting his puzzled eyes.  "Just…don't tell me what you do with it.  I don't want to know."

He didn't even look inside---not like she really expected him to---and just tucked it into his pocket, concern darkening his gaze to a stormy blue.  "You want some more time alone?" he quizzed.

Time alone.  It sounded like a gift from heaven at the moment.

Mutely, she nodded, turning back to the refuge of the sink, but before he could disappear back out into the living room, she called out, "Spike?"

"What is it?"

"Promise me something."

"Anything you want, pet."

"Don't kill him."  The sound of the door closing again drew her head back up, and she saw Spike's reflection staring back at her in the mirror, heavy brows drawn.

"You're kidding…right?"  When she shook her head in denial, he stepped forward, strong hands coming up to grasp her upper arms.  "There's no other way, Buffy.  He's not the sort to just give up.  He's goin' to keep after me until it's done---."

"Then you _find_ another way.  I owe him my life, Spike.  I can finally repay him for that."

"You don't owe him a dime."

"So nice to see you valuing my life less than a skinny piece of silver," she snapped.

"That wasn't what I meant---."

"You said _anything_.  That's what I want."

For the longest of moments, he stared at her, almost as if he were viewing a stranger.  She knew he didn't understand, but he hadn't been there, he hadn't heard Angel arguing with the police or been the one he'd sheltered from even more harassment from the newshawks.  She may not like what Angel had done now, and she may be too apprehensive to face him again for fear of buckling under the emotional blackmail she was convinced he would try, but she couldn't see him dead.  It would mean all those things people had said about her back in California were actually true.

"What about Red?" Spike asked quietly.  "You expect me to just turn the other cheek about that?"

"That wasn't Angel," she argued.

"Might as well have been.  He's the reason we're in this bloody town in the first place, and if you think I'm not goin' to make sure _someone_ pays for hurting her, you don't know me at all, Buffy."

"So kill the other one.  The one Mr. Trick actually works for."

His eyes flashed, and she felt a stab of fear in her stomach.  "Did you hear who the other wanker is?"

Truth was, she hadn't.  She'd heard Angel's name come out of the attorney's mouth, and everything else was a blur as she rushed to get out of the room.  Mutely, Buffy shook her head.

"Robin Wood.  _Nikki_ Wood's brother."  He paused, swallowing as if speech was difficult, and she was suddenly thrust back in time to the darkness of their bedroom when he'd first confessed to killing the young dancer.  "So, what you're really askin' me to do here is spare the bastard who ordered the hit on his own father and didn't even have the balls to do it himself, but clip the man who actually _deserves_ his taste of revenge?"  Shaking his head, Spike seemed to pale as he stepped away from her, the distance chill and looming although it was only a few inches.  "Not even _you_ can be that blinkered, Buffy."

Her heart was lodged in her throat when he slipped silently back through the doorway, closing it shut behind him and leaving her in the solitude of her racing thoughts.  _But you promised_, the small child inside her whispered in desperation.  The only thing she was glad for at the moment was that she hadn't actually voiced such a thing out loud; in his current mood, she wasn't sure that she wouldn't find herself out on the street for being so unyielding on this issue.

But she couldn't let Angel die, and Spike wouldn't let Angel live.  How in the world would they ever get past this?

*************

"Sir?"

The single word floated through the ether to penetrate his rest, and Wesley blinked against the brilliance of the overhead lights, straightening in the chair as he turned his head to the doorway.  "Yes?" he replied.  His voice was hoarse from disuse and briefly he wondered just how long he'd been asleep, but more importantly, how he could've slept when Willow was still not completely out of danger.

"There's a telephone call for you," Hope said.  "A Mr. Giles."

Immediately, Wesley rose to his feet and followed her out to the front desk.  "Has there been any word regarding Miss Rosenberg's status?"

"She's out of surgery and under observation in post-op.  The doctors don't expect her to wake until morning.  They sedated her to ensure she gets as much rest as possible."  She reached for the phone and handed it to him, returning to her paperwork to allow him some privacy.

"Tell me Red's all right."

He remained impassive at the sound of Spike's voice.  "You didn't already ask for an update?"

"I'll believe it when I hear it from your lips, Wesley."

He was still trusted.  The observation was a small balm to his frayed nerves, and he silently thanked the ex-hitman for the favor.  "She came through surgery and is resting.  All signs are looking favorable."

"Good."  Spike sounded weary, and Wes knew this was weighing heavily on him.  He'd be feeling responsible, even if he hadn't actually been there.  "Feel like puttin' that intellect of yours to work for a few hours?  I got a puzzle here in desperate need of puzzling.  Could use a noggin like yours to help sort it out."

"You didn't…"  He glanced at Hope, and turned his back to her.  "…find out what you needed to know?"

"No, we got it.  The problem is now…what do we do with it."

"Eliminate it.  I thought that was simple.  "

A deep sigh, one that carried the weight of the world in it.  "Wish it was, mate.  We're at your hotel.  You comin' or not?"

"If I go, it'll mean leaving information here as to where I can be reached."

"Do it.  The risk is worth it to make sure we stay on top of Red's condition."

Handing the phone back to Hope, Wesley pulled his pen from his pocket at the same time.  "I'm going to my hotel to rest and shower," he explained, scribbling down the details.  "If there is any change whatsoever in Miss Rosenberg's status, I want to be called immediately.  If she talks in her sleep, call me.  If she sneezes, call me.  If she---."

"Yes, sir.  I get the picture."  Her eyes were kind as she took the paper from him.  "I know it isn't my place," she faltered, and then took a deep breath to steady the slight quaver in her voice.  "I hope you get whoever did this to your…friend.  She's very lucky to have someone who cares so much about her on her side."

She's got a _lot_ of someones on her side, Wesley thought as he nodded in gratitude and walked away from the counter.  Let's just hope it's enough.

To be continued in Chapter 35: Unholy Partners…


	35. Unholy Partners

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  After being assured Willow is all right and will sleep through the night, Wesley has gone back to the hotel at Spike's request to figure out what to do with the knowledge that it's both Angel and Wood behind the hit.  Meanwhile, Kate has gone to check out the disturbance at Lindsey's hotel, while Riley has begun to be suspicious of Warren…

*************

She was waiting for him by the elevator, eyes bright, an eager smile on her face.  Riley frowned.  If he didn't know Kate better, he would almost expect her to be bouncing up and down from whatever glee was percolating inside her.

"You called?" he said as he stopped in front of her.

"Come on."  She grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the closed doors, leading him toward the reception desk.  Flashing her badge at the clerk, she nodded at Riley to do the same, staying silent until they had stepped through the doors that led to the inner workings of the hotel.

"When do I get the lowdown on why exactly I'm here?" he asked.

"How much have you heard?" she replied, directing him down the corridor.

"I know from nothing.  When I didn't hear back from you right away, I figured it was all a big bust, but then you called and you told me absolutely squat except to get my carcass down here…"  The irritated look he shot her was less one of annoyance and more one that he'd bestow upon an ornery younger sibling, and she grinned even wider as she pushed open a door.  "…so here I am."

"And here we are," she said.  "Stop number one."

They stood at the mouth of the back hallway, gazing down its length to the outside door and the fading sunlight that filtered through its opening.  Various sections of the floor had been taped off, and a uniformed cop was kneeling on the tile, scraping away at the stains that marred its perfection.

"What exactly happened here?" Riley asked.

"Shootout in the alley.  Witnesses put the number of guns anywhere from two to twenty, so they're not sure yet how many were involved.  So far, forensics have picked up at least three different casings, but they won't have a definitive answer until they've finished their sweep."

He nodded toward the bloodstains on the floor.  "Somebody got hit."

"A couple someones," she agreed, "but only one got dragged back inside."

"Do they have the body?"

"No.  And nothing's shown up at the hospitals yet.  They're monitoring the emergency rooms for bullet wounds in hopes that whoever it was will seek treatment."

"What about the others?"

"One dead, one wounded.  The wounded one's still out cold, probably will be for a while, the docs say.  Both have been identified through rather extensive police records out in Harlem.  Organized crime, to be exact."

Riley folded his arms across his chest, and turned away from the scene, looking down at Kate.  "I'm still not seeing what any of this has to do with the Wilkins case," he said.

He could tell she was bursting to tell him, but did surprisingly well at maintaining her composure.  "There's more to see," she said, and turned to punch the button for the service elevator.

They rode in silence, and when they stopped, were immediately assaulted by a young rookie demanding to see ID.  Another quick flash of their badges, and Riley and Kate were strolling down the hallway, stopping before a pair of opposite doors.

"That one first," she said, pointing to the one at his left.

He didn't bother knock, just pushed it open and stepped inside.  The opulence within made him want to whistle out loud in amazement, but instead he kept his quiet, wondering how in the world people could justify spending this kind of dough for a bed to sleep in temporarily.

On the couch, a nervous young steward was playing with his hat, waiting for the cop before him to snap closed his notebook.  Upon their entrance, both occupants looked up, and Riley recognized the visage of Adam Walsh, not too long ago transferred from his own precinct.  So this is how Kate knew it would be all right for me to show my mug around here, he thought as he stepped up to the couch.  Adam had been the one of the first to help Riley out when he'd moved to the city, and was the closest thing to a brother he could call this far from home.

"You look like crap," Adam commented, his face stoic as ever but his tone light.  He stood, closing his notes and tucking it inside his jacket.

Riley lifted his eyes to meet his friend's.  "Same could be said for you," he replied with a smile, hand coming out in greeting.

"Miss Lockley here seems to be of the opinion that my new case is going to interest you.  In fact, she hasn't stopped barbering away about it."

At his side, Kate blushed, but Riley ignored it, focusing on the young man on the couch.  "I assume he saw what went down?" he queried.

"Not exactly."  Adam nodded toward the steward.  "Go on.  Tell him your story."

Bit by bit, the tale fell into place.  Getting the breakfast order.  Bringing it upstairs.  Running into the men at the elevator.  Taking the bribe to get away.  And then identifying the bodies afterward as belonging to the same group he'd seen on this floor.

At the end of it, Riley frowned, and glanced back at Kate.  "Still not seeing the connection here," he said.

"Tell him who has the rooms on this floor," she instructed the steward.

"They're booked by a law firm.  Wolfram and Hart."

Law firm.  "McDonald?" Riley asked Kate.

She nodded.  "And guess who had this room?"

"Well, we don't actually have that confirmed---," Adam started.

"But the description fits perfectly," she argued.  She beamed as she looked up at Riley.  "Faith."

Bingo.  "So, let me talk to them," he demanded.  "Her lawyer's around, she's got these triggermen showing up for breakfast.  She's got to know---."

"You can't.  She's not here."  She held up her hands to cut him off.  "And before you ask, McDonald's not here either.  But I think there's someone else who might interest you to speak with."

*************

Furious, Lilah slammed down the phone, wincing when she caught her last remaining good nail and snagging it in a jagged tear.  "Damn it," she muttered, and marched off to the bathroom, pulling out her file and honing it down to match the others.  Perfect end to a perfect day, she thought bitterly.  Too bad Lindsey's not around to put on the polishing touches.  Bastard.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, examining the small scratch on her forehead that she was doing her best to hide behind her hair.  It was the only physical reminder she bore from her car ride from hell earlier, though the broken heel on her shoe, the rend in the back seam of her skirt, and an incredibly bruised ego were right there on standby for when it healed.  It had taken her nearly six hours to get back into the city and to the hotel---using feminine wiles on men she was repulsed to admit to even talking to---and once there, she'd been immediately accosted by the police, wanting to question her as to Lindsey's disappearance and the shootout that had happened outside.

Damn Lindsey.  This was all his fault.

Then, as if her day hadn't been awful enough, Holland had called.  Apparently, Wood had decided to eliminate what he considered a bad seed, with Holland's approval, but Lindsey had eluded their grasp, though how, they had no idea.  Mr. Trick had told some story about one of Rook's men showing up to turn him over to the lawyers, but it sounded like nonsense to her.  Anyone who knew Rook knew his people were loyal to him to a fault; only an idiot would buy that kind of story.

And she'd made the mistake of saying so to her boss.

"Find him," he had ordered, his voice like ice.  "Actually, find both of them.  Use whatever means necessary.  Lindsey is no longer an asset to this company and needs to be treated as dangerous.  Do you understand?"

She'd stumbled over her assent, and had been eager to hang up the phone, when his final warning drifted across the line, tingling her spine in fear and fury.

"Oh, and Lilah?  The Senior Partners are quite dismayed that this is turning into such a three-ring circus.  If it's not resolved by the end of the week, consider yourself fired."

And that had been it.  God, she could really use a drink right about now.

The knock at the door made her want to scream in frustration.  Who the hell could it be now? she raged inwardly as she marched for the door.  She almost rolled her eyes when she saw the blonde on the other side.  Great.  Back to the cops again.

"Miss Morgan?" Kate said, stepping forward just enough to make it impossible for Lilah to slam the door on her.  "I hope we're not intruding too much, but I was hoping you could speak to Detective Finn for a few moments."

She gestured toward the tall man behind her, and Lilah affected her brightest courtroom smile.  Damn, they grew them _big_ here in New York, she thought as she stepped aside to let them enter.  Between him and Detective Walsh…Her eyes roved over the broad shoulders, the slim hips, and then she shook her head at her own foolishness.  Too bad he's a white hat.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked, striding toward the liquor cabinet.

"No, thank you, ma'am.  Not while we're on duty."

_Ma'am?_  She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.  They grew 'em stupid, too, it looked like.

He waited until she was seated on the couch, gazing up at him expectantly, before he spoke again.  "Miss Lockley tells me you're an associate of Mr. McDonald's," Finn said.  "I was hoping that you might be able to enlighten us on one of his clients."

Inwardly, she steeled herself.  "Mr. McDonald's clients are his own concern," she replied evenly.  "And even if I did know anything about them, I wouldn't be able to tell you.  Client confidentiality, you know."

"So, you have no dealings with the young woman who was across the hall?"

She kept her surprise hidden.  "None."  _What woman?_

"It's just…"  He settled himself in the chair opposite, unbuttoning his jacket as he leaned forward.  "…she's a major witness in one of my cases, and with both Faith and Mr. McDonald now missing, I'm beginning to get concerned about the integrity of my investigation.  I'm sure you appreciate my problem here."

So that's what this is about, she thought as she kept her eyes on Finn.  She should've made the association right away---Finn was the one assigned to the Wilkins murder---but in her heightened state of agitation, it had passed right by her.  And now he was telling her that Lindsey had been hiding little miss Faithie-poo right under Lilah's nose.

The fact that she'd spent most of her morning on a wild goose chase with Spike now suddenly seemed to make sense.  What was it he had said?

"If it wasn't for your little distraction, my part in this little escapade today could've been bum-numbingly boring."  

A set-up.  And she'd fallen for it.  Lindsey must've gotten wind of Trick's plan and jumped ship while he still had the legs for it.  Not good.  Not good at all.

"You don't think anything…_bad_ has happened to Lindsey…do you?"  It was easy to feign concern for his wellbeing.  If he got away, she wasn't so sure she wouldn't be floating in the East River as punishment for letting it happen.

"We don't know," Finn admitted.  "Do you mind telling us where _you_ were today?"

Almost imperceptibly, her eyes narrowed.  She'd been too quick to judge this one, she decided.  He was the first to inquire after her whereabouts.  "With a client," she said smoothly.

The glance he shot the scratch on her forehead was unmistakable.  "Did it not go so well?" he asked.

"Unrelated.  My heel broke when I was hailing a cab to return to the hotel, and I stumbled."

"Guess you must've fallen pretty hard to break all your nails like that."

There was no change in his demeanor, still the politeness, still the cordiality, but Lilah could sense the warning behind his words.  _Don't lie to me_, it said.  _I can see straight through you_.

"The price we women pay for our vanity," she said with a tight smile.  "Do you have any leads on where Lindsey might be?"  Time to stop sitting back.  Time to take back control of the ball.

"We have our suspicions," he said.

He was lying to her, but at least he was trying, she had to give him that.  "I'd like to help in any way I can," Lilah said.  "He may act all tough and smart, but at heart, he's still a small town boy.  If he's in any kind of danger---."

"Why do you think he'd be in danger?"

Finn's question was rapid, and he was leaning even further forward, his forearms resting on his knees while his eyes remained locked on hers, momentarily startling her into silence.  She scrambled for the first words she could find, and hoped they'd be enough to cover herself.

"That Detective Walsh told me earlier that he'd been seen with those men who were shot in the alley.  And men with guns usually don't inspire feelings of confidence in me.  I meant what I said.  I want to help in any way I can.  The last thing I want to see is Lindsey getting hurt."  Or myself, she added silently, but kept her gaze level as she prayed the cop would buy it.

The room was silent for a moment.  "It would help us considerably if we could see his files," he finally said.

She shook her head.  "Absolutely not.  I've told you.  Short of a court order, I absolutely cannot let you have those.  Ask me anything else."  She brightened.  "Maybe I could go over your crime scene notes.  I'm not exactly lacking in the brains department.  Maybe I'll see something you've missed."

Finn and Lockley exchanged a quick look before he shook his head.  "I'm sure something will come up that you can help us with," he said, rising to his feet.  "I appreciate your taking the time to tell us what you could."

Following them to the doorway, Lilah pulled one of her business cards from her purse by the entrance and passed it over to them.  "Please.  Contact me whenever you need to.  It's important that Lindsey be all right."

He only nodded and began walking away.  Before Kate could join him, Lilah's hand shot out and gripped her arm, stopping her moving any further.

"Lindsey can be…impetuous," she said quickly, keeping her voice down.  "If he's got Faith with him, that makes him twice as hard to predict.  Please.  If you find _anything_ out, call me.  I know him better than anyone.  I can honestly help."  And with that, she stepped back into her suite and shut the door.

*************

Kate was frowning as she joined Riley at the elevator, glancing over her shoulder at the closed door in the distance.  "I need to get Graham on the phone," he was saying, though she barely heard him.  "I want him to see Walsh's perps, see if either of them is the witness who took a powder at Faith's apartment---."

"She's lying to us," Kate said suddenly as the elevator doors swooshed open in front of them.

Riley's arm shot out to prevent the doors from closing again, but followed her gaze to where it was locked on Lilah's hotel room.  "Not that that really surprises me," he said, "but what makes you say it?"

"She said she didn't know anything about the woman across the hall.  Yet, she just tried warning me that Faith made McDonald unpredictable.  Seems mutually exclusive, if you ask me."

His face was grim as he stepped inside the elevator, waiting for her to join him.  "You'd make a hell of an investigator," he commented as they started their descent.  "Feel like making Lilah Morgan your new best friend?"

She smiled, delight sparkling in her eyes.  "I thought you'd never ask."

*************

Part of him still couldn't believe she actually had the moxie to ask such a thing.  As he listened to Wesley quiz the others, Spike could only watch Buffy as she sat and fidgeted at the dining room table, separate from the group but still hanging on to every word.  As if her future depended on it.  As if _Angel_ was her future.

This sense of obligation to her fiancé made him ill, because he was convinced more than anything else that Wilkins had something to do with the nightmares of Buffy's past.  She didn't see it, of course, and Spike didn't dare to voice his suspicions.  Bringing it up would only distance her from him, and he couldn't bear the thought of his life without her in it.

But couldn't she understand that he _had _to do something about it?  Wesley's report had eased his mind somewhat about Red, but until she was back in his presence, smile bright and endlessly perky, Spike would not be content.  And even then, he'd still have to avenge her shooting in _some _way.

"Interesting," Wesley said, leaning back into the couch.  His gaze shifted to Spike.  "You killed this Wood's sister?"

"Yes," he replied through gritted teeth.  "For the last soddin' time, _yes_."  The faster they moved away from the subject of just what he'd done five years ago and on to what they were going to do about the current situation, the happier he would be.

"And you don't want to kill either of them…why?"

Spike's sigh of exasperation was explosive in the close air of the room, and he leapt to his feet to begin pacing in front of the fireplace again.  "Because I bloody well don't want any more lives on my head!" he snarled.

"Didn't stop you with Richard," Faith remarked coldly.

Her comment barely made him pause.  "Entirely different," he said.  

"Spike."  Ripper stepped forward, arms folded across his chest, his expression grave.  "I understand your concerns, but these are not the type of men to just give up.  They've gone to great lengths to set you up on this.  They're not going to simply roll over and play dead because we _ask_ them to."

"Hence, my dilemma," the blond replied tightly.  His head swiveled to stare at Wesley.  "I'm open to suggestions here whenever you're ready."

Wesley shrugged.  "I think Giles is right.  I don't see how sparing their lives is going to alleviate your situation."

"And you're both jingle-brained if you think you can get close enough to either guy to even blow on them," Lindsey interrupted.  "They've got money.  They've got power.  And they've got Wolfram and Hart behind them every step of the way.  You'd be dead before you could even consider drawing your gun."

"Too bad we can't just click together our ruby slippers and wish them away to Oz," Xander joked.  "No muss, no fuss."

"Maybe you could try apologizing."  Faith's tone was mocking.  "You know, walk up to Wood, put on your best, I'm-so-charming-you-have-to-believe-me smile, and say, 'Hey man, sorry about blowin' away your sister---.'"

Her words were cut off in a gurgle when Spike whirled and caught her throat in his hand, shoving her back off her stool and up against the wall.  "Keep.  Your trap.  Shut," he growled, eyes ebony in anger.

Other hands were on him in an instant, pulling him away, but Faith refused to slump, holding herself stiffly as her hand flew to her neck.  "Guess that repentance jive you've been spouting is just talk after all," she rasped.  "Should've known anyone B would hook up with would be all about the hitting."

"Enough!"  Releasing his grip on Spike's shoulder, the Englishman elbowed his way in between the two, eyes flashing behind his glasses.  "This is getting us nowhere, and while we're standing around, bickering like schoolchildren, the men who are responsible for putting Willow in the hospital are walking around this town free as a jaybird.  Now.  Can we please _focus_?"

With a vicious twist, Spike wrested himself from Xander and Wesley's grips and stalked to the opposite side of the room, planting himself on the windowsill and ripping the pane upwards.  Sticking a cigarette in his mouth, he fumbled for his lighter, keeping his eyes away from the remainder of the group.  None of them fuckin' understood.  Not Ripper.  Not Harris.  Not even Buffy---.

"What if they weren't free?" she said quietly from the table.  It was the first thing she'd said since emerging from the bathroom, and all heads turned to look at her, curious as to what she was ready to offer.  "What if they were locked up?"

"Put them behind bars?" Wesley queried.  He shook his head.  "You forget.  I tried for three years to get something on the Mayor, and couldn't do it.  I highly doubt we could nail _two_ family heads in any amount of time.  They're just too slippery."

"But…"  She rose from her chair, animated for the first time since arriving.  "That was before.  That was different."  Pointing to each man as she mentioned him, Buffy closed the distance join the rest of the group.  "You didn't have Spike then, and he's got resources in this city you can only dream about.  You didn't have Giles, and from what I've been able to tell so far, he's as uptight and organized as you are.  And you didn't have their lawyer, you know, the one who knows all their dirty little secrets?  You're telling me that with these kind of people at your disposal, you can't get enough dirt to put them in the big house?  What kind of a federal agent are you, Wesley?"

While the rest of them just stared at her in amazement, Spike couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips.  "Obviously, not a very good one, luv," he joked, and tossed his cigarette out the window, the nicotine fix he'd been seeking now unnecessary.

She had a point.  If he couldn't kill them, he could make sure they paid for their crimes in other ways, by denying them their freedom for the rest of their natural-born lives.  It would satisfy his need to make them pay, and spare the wanker's life like Buffy wanted.

McDonald's next words were a damper on his rising mood.  "Knowing the stories and having proof that will make the stories stick in court are two entirely different things," he said.

"And then there is the issue of the local police," Wesley said.  "Not that I don't think your idea has merit, Buffy, but they're still going to want to arrest Spike for the Mayor's murder."

"But…don't you outrank them?  Can't you just say…no, you can't have him?"

"If only it were that simple."

"What if…"  Spike rose to his feet and crossed to stand by Buffy.  "…we did it as a trade?  I help you nail both Wilkins and Wood, and in return, I get my record cleared.  Two for one.  You're tellin' me, your bosses wouldn't be interested in a deal like that?"

"It wouldn't matter if they were."  Lindsey rose to his feet and stood next to Wesley, gazing at the two blonds  "You still don't have proof."

"No," Spike said, in surprising agreement.  "I've got _you_."

*************

The clack of her heels was loud against the floor as she approached the desk.  She'd only ever heard about this place, and certainly never seen the inside of even the one they had back home; she had probably one of the most uneventful jobs in the entire department.  Still, a quick glance around the sterile environment was all she needed to know she hadn't really been missing much.  It all sounded much more glamorous and exciting when she was dealing with the abstract of it than facing the reality. 

The receptionist didn't even smile as she walked up.  "Can I help you?"

Pulling her identification from her wallet, Jenny held it up for inspection, saying, "I'm looking for Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.  He brought a young woman with a gunshot wound in here earlier.  Can you tell me where I can find him?"

To be continued in Chapter 36: Big Town After Dark…


	36. Big Town After Dark

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Riley and Kate are starting to find ties between Lindsey and the Mayor's murder, Jenny has arrived in New York, and Buffy has suggested a tentative plan to solve the problem of Angel and Wood…

*************

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her slip out the door, following Faith into the hotel hallway.  Girl talk, Spike reasoned.  With Red in the hospital, there were no other females in the room for Buffy to chat with while he and Ripper discussed the arrangements for the next day.  Not that she wasn't welcome to join in.  Hell, he was chuffed to bits at her cunning for coming up with the possibility of a plan to get them all out of this mess.  But since the debating had started, she'd seemed to lose interest in the idea, merely listening as they argued ways and means to getting it done.  And now, with Faith stepping out for a smoke, she was completely out of the conversation, and he hoped that that wasn't necessarily a sign for things to come.

"Are you even listening to me?" Ripper asked, annoyed.

"What's that? Yeah, I'm listening.  'Course, I'm listening.  This is my future we're jabbering on about here."  Spike turned his head back to the group seated around the dining room table, fingers manipulating the unlit cigarette in a dance of white, his heel tapping like a jackhammer against the leg of his chair.

"Oh, really?  What did I just say then?"

All eyes turned to him.  "Something with too many syllables, I'm sure," Spike retorted without hesitation.  He grinned, sheepish but unrepentant at being found out.  "Look, I'm just this side of done in here, so my apologies if the synapses aren't firin' as quick-like as they were.  What say we shelve the discussion and get a good night's kip?  Not like the lot of us can't use it."

"But we haven't reached any decisions yet," Ripper argued.

"And something tells me that the decisions we _do_ reach will be tossed out in the mornin' when we realize how daft we're bein', all because someone's idea of a good night means as little sleep as possible."  His tone was harsher than he intended, and Spike sighed in frustration, rising from where he was straddling the chair to stretch the muscles that had spent far too many hours that day sitting down.  

"Look," he continued, eyes weary.  "All I'm sayin' is that with the dames gettin' restless, Wesley still havin' to wear Red's blood like some soddin' souvenir because he hasn't had the chance to change yet, and Harris actually starting to sound like the smartest one of the lot of us, maybe it's time to consider that a few hours of r-and-r would do us a world of good.  That's all."

"Spike's right," Xander said, leaning forward onto the table.  "We're going in circles right now.  We'll all be sharper in the morning."

With a sigh of resignation, Giles tossed his pen down and pulled off his glasses to rub at his tired eyes.  "Fine," he said  "Will you be taking Buffy back to the flat?"

He nodded.  "I figured I'd see if Faith wants to tag along and camp out on the couch.  It might do her good to be around a friend for a bit.  Buffy, I mean," Spike added at Ripper's raised eyebrow.

"You're not going to try strangling her again, are you?" Wesley asked.

"Nah.  Might even apologize for bein' a little hot under the collar tonight.  Looks like she's taken enough of a beating as it is."  Spike's eyes fell on Lindsey, a niggle at something she'd said earlier tickling just beyond his reach.  "She happen to tell you who roughed her up?"

For a moment, the lawyer faltered before nodding.  "But if you want specifics," he said, "you're going to have to ask her yourself.  She told me in confidence, and I'm not about to break that."

Spike laughed.  "An honest shyster?  Who'd've thunk it?"

"What about me?" Lindsey asked.  "I'm guessing going back to my hotel is out of the question."

"You can bunk with me and Giles," Xander offered.  "We'll flip for the floor."

"Actually, he can have my bed."  Replacing his glasses on his nose, Ripper picked his pen back up, squaring the corners of the paper in front of him.  "I'll stay here in the event Wesley learns something about Willow."

Time froze as Spike regarded the two men, the deliberate casualness with which Ripper avoided looking at his would-be host versus the controlled surprise evident in the other's eyes.  There would be no more trouble between them---at least, not of the physical kind---but that didn't make this a match made in heaven by any stretch of the imagination.  Still, if they were to work together as a team, he was going to have to start treating them as such.  And so, he only nodded in agreement.

*************

She followed the trail of smoke out onto the street, the cooling night air chilling her more deeply than an entire afternoon spent in a crypt.  Faith hadn't bothered to wait before lighting up, but she'd beaten a path to the walk to finish her cigarette in peace, and it was there that Buffy found her, standing in a growing pool of gold from the streetlamp, her bruised body a blur of black and blue.

"Don't worry, I'm not breezing off," Faith said before Buffy could even open her mouth.  She glanced at the approaching woman behind the curtain of her hair, lips tight around the filter as she puffed away.

"I didn't think you were," she replied.  Rubbing her hands along her partially bare arms, Buffy stood next to Faith and stared at the traffic as it whizzed by in front of her.  "Do you ever feel as if we've suddenly stepped into some Cagney film?" she asked lightly.  "I mean, just a few weeks ago, Angel and Richard were dragging us to the Met to hear that Hungarian woman sing again.  And now, here we are…"  How did she qualify where they were at the moment? she mused.  Faith had lost a lot with Richard's death, and the last thing Buffy wanted was to remind her of that.

"Could be worse.  We could be in a fuckin' Capra flick."

"At least Capra films have happy endings."

"C'mon, B, you don't see a happy ending in this?  A whore, a torchie, a failed fed, and a couple triggermen, all against two of the strongest family heads in the city?  How can we go wrong?  You even snagged yourself a guy with a white hat in all this."  She grinned, but the humor didn't leap to her eyes.  "Well, a guy with white _hair_, at least."  She flicked her ash into the gutter, watching it snow along the grate before disappearing into the sewers.

"Listen, about Spike---."

"Smart thing would be to stop that sentence right now."  She used the carmine-tipped filter to punctuate her intent, her voice smoky and ragged.  "I'm not in the mood to hear you wax rhapsodic 'bout your new lay, so just back off, OK?"

Folding her arms under her breasts, both in an attempt to keep warm and to convey her rising ire, Buffy lifted her chin in defiance.  "It's not what you think, Faith---."

"Really?  You're _not_ fucking him then?"  The ensuing silence was the only response she needed and she laughed, a crystalline cry echoing into the darkened street.  "Not that I'm faulting you for grabbing what you can, because _damn_, he _is_ pretty, but you've really got to be a bunny for getting yourself in this deep, B."

"You don't know him the way I do."

"I know he killed Richard.  That's all I need to know."  

"There's more to it than that."

"There's _always_ more to it.  Doesn't change what he did."

As Buffy watched, Faith tossed the remains of her cigarette into the street, watching as it stopped, and then rolled back towards them, following the cant of the road to nestle itself in the gutter.  "What are you going to do now?" she asked quietly.

Faith shrugged.  "I haven't figured out that part of the script yet," she said.  "Maybe do some traveling, go see the folks.  They'd probably drop a load if I showed up on the doorstep now."

The pause that followed stretched into minutes, neither woman knowing exactly what to say next, concentrating instead on watching the cars pass by like ebony phantoms.  It was only when someone cleared their throat behind them, and both women turned to see Spike standing in the shadows, that the silence was shattered.

"Finally got Ripper to see sense and let us knock off," he said.  He didn't approach, though, eyes wary as they kept jumping to Faith.  "He's stickin' around to help Wesley with the planning, and Harris is takin' the mouthpiece back to the other hotel for a few hours' sleep.  That just leaves Little Miss Muffet here to suss out where she wants to park her tuffet for the night."

"Linds got me my own room when he put me up," she dared, her chin high.

"Yeah, well, I'm not Linds."  He pulled his cigarettes from his coat pocket, tapping the pack to make several dance free.  "You got three options.  Pick one."

Stepping forward, she took one of the white sticks before he could, holding it between her fingers while she waited for him to light it.  "Well, gee," she said sarcastically after she'd taken her first drag, "let's see.  I can stick with the brain trust upstairs and sit around for the night feeling like a waste of space when they run circles around me figuring out how to help you."  Another puff on the cigarette.  "Or, I can spend the night with the first two men who've turned me down since I was sixteen."  A third drag, and this time, she exhaled the smoke directly into Spike's face, smiling when he didn't even flinch.  "Or I can tuck my tail and shack it up with the asshole who made this whole mess in the first place.  That's a toughie."

"Faith---," Buffy started, but cut herself off when Spike held up his hand, warning her silently to stay out of it.

"You want me to apologize for offing the Mayor, pet, you're goin' to be waitin' a yearful of Sundays because it's _not_ goin' to happen."  His face was grim, the set of his mouth serious.  "I had a job, and I did it, and given the choice again, I'd do the exact same thing."  He grabbed Faith's arm when she turned to walk away, jerking her back to face him.  "Doesn't mean I'm not sorry things've gone so tits up for you, though.  And doesn't mean I don't regret losin' it inside."  His gaze flickered pointedly over her face, and she averted her head from his scrutiny.  "You've had enough rubbish to deal with.  You don't need me addin' to the pile."

"I don't need you _period,_ Spike."  She practically spat out his name, tossing her cigarette butt to the walk and grinding it to dust beneath her heel.  "If I had enough moolah, you can just bet I wouldn't be hanging around you sorry lot, waiting to let Angel take another poke at me."

Her words bounced around inside Buffy's head, their meaning lost to her.  _Another _poke?  What did she mean by that?

Spike was nodding, though, as if he understood what she'd meant, his hand dipping inside his pocket, lingering there for a long moment before extracting the ring box Buffy had given him earlier.  "Not that it's any of my business, of course, but seein' as how we've picked up a spoil or two on this wild ride, and _we've_ already been paid…"

Faith's brows lifted when she opened the box, the diamond gleaming under the streetlight.  "Gee, and I didn't think you cared," she drawled, and then snapped it shut again, holding it out for him to take back.  "You really think you can buy me off with B's baubles?  I don't do cast-offs."

He shrugged.  "It's either you or the East River, duck."  Releasing his grip, he stepped to Buffy's side, his gaze remaining steady on Faith.  "Just figured, you'd be personally interested in putting the screws to the wanker.  I think a rock that size must've cost him a pretty penny.  Imagine how brassed off he'll be if _you're_ the one who benefits from it."

Her face was inscrutable in the shadows as Faith just stood there and stared at him.  Slowly, she drew her hand back, tucking the case into her fist.  "This changes nothing, you know."

Spike shrugged.  "Didn't think it would."

"This is about Angel.  About hurting _him_."

"Believe that's been the tune I've been singin' all night.  Got a catchy ring to it, don't you think?"

Another pause.  And then, "I think…I'll stick around here for the night," she said.  "Take my chances with the brainiacs.  At least Wes…I still halfway understand."

Buffy frowned when Faith disappeared back into the hotel.  "What was that all about?"

"Detente," he replied cryptically, his gaze solemn as it remained locked on the closed doors.  She leaned her head against his arm when he took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together to lead her toward the car.  "Let's go home, luv."

*************

The darkness engulfed him, the only light in the room streaming in through the cracks in the curtain from the golden streetlamps outside.  He wasn't sure why he was surprised she wasn't there, but deep down, Angel had hoped that his instincts were wrong, that Buffy wasn't involved with Rook and that she'd merely grown too upset to face the rest of the funeral.  Where else could she go but back to her apartment? he'd reasoned.

He'd reasoned wrong.

Part of him wondered if she'd ever come back, but Angel immediately dismissed that as ridiculous.  Of course she would; all her stuff was here---the photo albums she'd insisted on lugging all the way from Sunnydale, the wardrobe full of clothes she'd accumulated over the last few years, the jewelry box overflowing with things he'd bought for her.  He was just going to have to assign a guy to keep an eye on the place until she showed her face again.

It was the in-between time that was slowly eating out his gut.  Nobody had been able to find hide nor hair of her after the funeral.  No note, no explanation, no Buffy.  Then, he'd realized Faith hadn't shown up, but swinging by her apartment had only told him that she'd flown the coop as well.  He wasn't actually worried about her, though; sooner or later, he knew she'd come crawling back, ready to spread 'em again for a little financial relief.  It just meant having to find his jollies elsewhere in the interim.

Not that he thought he was going to be happy any time soon.  Not until he got Buffy back and made sure Rook paid for trying to corrupt her in the first place.

Slowly, his hand reached out to pick up the phone on the table, his fingers dialing the number by rote.  His eyes were glued to the picture staring up at him from his lap, the smiling snapshot of Buffy buried in the back of one her albums that was his favorite, the one she persistently refused to let him take away.  Too bad.  Carefully, he peeled away the corner tabs that held it in place while he waited for the other end of the line to pick up.

"Hello?"

"What's the word?"

No need for introductions.  He'd known Wood had been expecting his call.  Besides, the other family head reserved this number for only the most private of conversations.

"Rook's still at large," Wood replied.  "And now it looks like McDonald's taken the run-out.  I'm out two more men, one in the morgue and one in the hospital."

"Rook's got the lawyer?"  That couldn't be good.  The lawyer could finger Angel in a heartbeat.

"Looks that way.  Trick saw one of Rook's men when he went down to take McDonald out."

"Damn."

There was a long pause, and Angel heard the scraping of a chair from the other end of the line.  "I think we need to take a face to face with the other mouthpiece," Wood said.  "I've already talked to her once tonight.  If she'd been around this morning when my men arrived, she would've seen straight through McDonald's scam to get out of there.  My money says she's more on the ball than he was.  If anyone can nail Rook, she can."

Angel was beginning to believe that the only way to nail Rook was to do it himself.  "You meet with her.  I'm not risking being seen with you again.  Someone could mark us as working together."

"Maybe you should've thought about that before you dropped in to my office the other night."

"And maybe if you'd held up your end of the deal, I wouldn't have had to pay you a little visit."  His voice was turning into a snarl, all his frustrations and anger from the day leaking out to slur across the phone line.  "I should just call this whole thing off right now."

"You call it off when I get paid."  Wood's tone was icy.  "I expect that territory."

"You should've thought of that before you let Rook slip through your fingers."  He slammed the receiver down before he could catch the angry reply, his fingers clenched bone-white around the phone.  With a furious growl, he leapt to his feet, yanking it from its anchor on the wall and hurling it through the window, pleasuring in the sound of the shattered glass pinging across the fire escape outside as the album skidded to the floor with a thud

Piece by piece, it was unraveling.  All his plans, disintegrating before his very eyes.

Wood's revolt.

McDonald's disappearance.

Faith's desertion.

Buffy's cheating.

And it all came back to one person.

Rook.

Angel's eyes came to rest on the photograph that had slipped free from its bindings, a slightly askew Buffy laughing up at him from her new vantage point on the floor.  Bending over, he picked up the rectangular piece of paper, his thumb brushing across the curve of her mouth in a sensual caress, and he swallowed past the lump of hate that had risen in his throat.

Time to stop fucking around.  

Time to return fire with fire.

For Buffy's sake.

*************

She had to be careful not to be seen.  If anyone learned that Riley had put Kate on undercover work for the Wilkins investigation, he'd be in danger of losing his badge, and she wasn't about to let that happen, not when he needed her so much, and not when he was doing his damnedest to break this case open.

So she watched the hotel from the diner across the street, hoping that her instincts were right and that Lilah Morgan was not the type to go skulking out back doors.  It was on her third cup of coffee, when Kate was debating if she could risk a trip to the ladies' room, when she saw the attorney stride out of the building opposite as if she owned the city, perfectly coiffed, clothes now immaculate.

Dropping a couple bills onto the table, she grabbed her purse from the seat next to her, keeping an eye on the street as she did so.  As she watched, a long dark car coasted to a stop in front of the hotel, and Lilah made no hesitation to open the back door and slide inside, whispering away to vanish into the traffic.

"Damn it," Kate muttered and bolted out the door, hailing the first cab she saw.  She flashed her badge as she slid onto the seat, barking, "Follow that car, but not too closely.  Don't let them see you."

It was hard not to smile as they came to a stop a few lengths back at the red light that held both of them up.  Excitement surged through her veins.  Just like in the movies, she thought.  Now let's just hope I don't get shot.

*************

"That won't work," Giles argued, crossing out several lines on the paper in front of him.  He sipped at the tea that had long grown cold, lips still pursed as he regarded the pair opposite him.  "It's a suicide mission."

"I believe that characterizes this whole job," Wesley countered.  "And it _will_ work.  With a…little bit of luck."

"And that's the particular aspect that returns me to my original assertion.  I can't allow you to be so foolhardy."

"You're not the fool bein' hardy, so why don't you lay the hell off, Gramps."  Leaning back in her chair, Faith picked at the chipped paint on her nails.  "I don't suppose your girlfriend has any nail polish lying around I can borrow, Wes," she said.  "I'm beginning to look like one of the girls over on the north side."

"I'm not…" he started, and stopped, frowning.  "I haven't…I don't know."  Abruptly, he rose to his feet, crossing to the phone.  "I'm going to check on---."  A knock at the door made him jump, and the receiver clattered from his grip onto the table.

"I swear, I can't believe you guys haven't been nailed yet," Faith said, shaking her head.  "'Cause the way you hop around this city?  You're just askin' to be spotted."

Giles rose to his feet, stepping out into the lounge as Wesley pulled open the door.  He stiffened when he saw the unfamiliar form on the other side, eyes quickly darting around for anything suspicious.

"I'd say you look good for a dead man," the woman said, "but that would be one whopper of a fib."  She walked into the room as if it was her own.  "God, Wes, what the hell happened to you?"

She stopped short when she spied the others in the room, dark eyes sliding up and down Giles' form in an appraisal that brought a flush to his cheeks.  It wasn't until her eyes fell on Faith, though, and she saw the bruises that still mottled the other woman's face, that she turned back to where Wesley was just closing the door.

"Any story that has you looking like that, and the Mayor's mistress sitting at your dining room table looking even worse, has got to be a doozy," she said.  "So spill it.  You owe me after today."

"What are you doing here?" Wes asked.

"Are you kidding?  You're dormy for months, and then I get how many calls from you asking for my help?  Evil law firms I've never heard of, gunfights.  My curiosity is piqued.  No way am I not getting in on what's going on."

"Who…is this, Wesley?" Giles asked cautiously.

She didn't even wait for an introduction.  "I'm Jenny Calendar," she said, sticking out her hand in greeting.  "His assistant.  Now.  Who the hell are you?"

To be continued in Chapter 36: The Lady and the Mob…


	37. The Lady and the Mob

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Jenny has shown up at Wesley's hotel, Angel is ready to do something about Spike, and Faith and Spike have reached a semi-truce…

*************

The journey back to the apartment was cloaked in silence, musings and ruminations from both Buffy and Spike focusing their attention inwards instead of on the twinkling of the night around them or on each other.  So lost in her thoughts, meandering among the questions and doubts that had been plaguing her ever since Lindsey's proclamation, she wasn't even aware when the Desoto stopped, lingering in her seat after Spike had exited, automatically taking his proffered hand when he came around and opened her door. 

Buffy shivered as she stepped out onto the walk, a seismic floe replacing the control she normally exerted over her muscles, and frowned as she lifted her eyes skyward, noting the gray cirrus wisping before the stars.  "When did it get cold?" she murmured.

His jacket slid around her shoulders in a musky weight that warmed her from the outside in.  "Not much longer before we're back in the California sunshine, pet," he said, tucking her hand into his and leading her to the narrow entryway.

When the flash of the streetlight made his cheeks gleam bone-white before vanishing back into shadow, Buffy giggled.  "Because you obviously spend so much time out in it."

"Lot easier to do undercover when there's actually cover to be under," he shot back with a smile.

His jesting reminder of his line of work stifled her natural retort, and she fell quiet again as he led her toward the elevator.  Over the past few days, she'd spent more time considering the reality of the world she pretended to be a part of, and the understanding of just what that entailed was only beginning to crystallize for her.

It was about power.  That had to be Angel's impetus in ordering the hit.  He was just tired of being second fiddle to his father.  That had to be why he'd---.

_Why am I trying to justify him?_

But she already knew the answer to that.

Because if she could be so wrong about the man she'd spent the greater part of the last five years with, how could she be sure she was right about Spike after having known him for barely more than five days?

She was only half present when he pulled her into the apartment, and she didn't even hear him when he disappeared into the kitchen.  She just stood in the foyer, gazing blankly at the shabby room without seeing its accoutrements and not even bothering to shrug out of his coat, until he emerged with butter knife in his hand.

"Well?" Spike prompted.

Buffy shook her head.  "I'm sorry.  What did you say?"

"I asked if you were hungry.  We haven't exactly been doin' the three squares over the past few days."

"Oh.  I guess."

His head tilted, eyes dark as they regarded her.  "You've got that face on," he commented.  At the curious lift of her brows, he clarified, "The one that says you're just tellin' me what I want to hear because you don't want to say what's really on your mind."

"I'm not…I just…"  But how did she say it?  She'd thrown everything away for this man.  She'd told him she loved him; she'd told him she'd leave behind everything she knew to follow him across the country.  She'd broken how many laws to help him?  And yet… the lingering self-doubt clogged in her throat, the words unwilling to crawl out of her mouth no matter how badly she wanted to share the weight of them with him.

Not even when he set the knife down and closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her so that her cheek rested on his chest, could she speak.

"Thought this was what you wanted," Spike said softly.  Her hair coiled around his fingers as he absently played with a loose tendril.  "It's the only way I can see to take care of the wanker without twistin' his head off like you asked.  If you've changed your mind, tell me, 'cause nothin' would make me happier than---."

"No."  He thought she was worried about the plans.  "That's…thank you for that.  You have no idea…I know it's hard, considering…"  She let her hands steal underneath his shirt, reveling in the sinewy muscles of his back, her breath soft and warm as she exhaled raggedly.  He made it so difficult to keep her thoughts straight when he was this close.  The common sense thing to do would be to step away, but nothing inside Buffy could seem to summon the strength to do so.

His fingers touched her chin, lifting her head to look up at him.  "This about Faith then?  You still fussing about that?"

It was as good an excuse as any, and Buffy leapt at the opportunity to talk about anything but her own failures.  "She's got it in for you, you know," she advised.  "Though I thought giving her the ring was a good idea."  She didn't even refer to it as _her_ ring; she'd long ago stopped considering it as such anyway.

Spike snorted.  "She's got it in for Angel more," he said.  "Figure I'm safe by default."  His mouth opened as if there was more he wanted to say, but as she watched, his aspect closed off again, the decision to utter something else shuttling the words to the recesses of wherever he kept those kind of thoughts.  "Dame's had it rough.  Deserves to finally get a break if I can help it."

"Faith's a big girl.  If she can handle walking away from whoever tried turning her into a Picasso, then she can handle just about anything.  Which is why you have be careful with her."

"Thought you two were friends."

"We are.  But that doesn't mean I'm blind as to what she can do if she's pressed."  This was better.  This was focusing on the here and the now, the problems at hand.  Not her.  Or her jingle-brained delusions about what was right and what was wrong.

A devilish grin creased his features, and slowly he backed her toward the wall.  "Know what I'd rather be pressing right about now," he drawled.  The heat emanating from his body rippled through hers, his lean hips hard and jutting into her pelvis.  

Her gaze was captivated by his mouth descending to meet hers, and she had to fight the urge to turn her head away at the last minute, guilt rising like bile inside her.  When his lips met hers, though, they weren't firm like the promise of his form.  Instead, they were soft and supple, coaxing rather than demanding, and she moaned in supplication as her senses took over.  It had to be unnatural, this response she had to him, forgetting all reason regardless of the worries running rampant inside her head.  Was it possible for her body to know the truth?  Was she agonizing for nothing?

"Told Ripper we needed to get a spot of rest," Spike murmured, trailing his lips across the slope of her cheek.

"This doesn't feel like resting," Buffy replied, barely able to breathe as her heart hammered away in her chest.

"Believe I also said something about a bit of relaxation," he went on, and his blunt teeth caught her earlobe, tugging at it just enough to send a tremor of anticipation down her spine.

"And you know, that's yet another word I'd never associate with you," she said.  Her hands came up, twining through the hair that had curled at the base of his neck, effectively pulling him even tighter against her.  "Spike…" she murmured, and gulped as she fought the drowning of her thoughts in his caress.

He didn't respond, only growling into her skin as he raked his teeth down the line of her neck.

"Spike…"  Louder, harsher, but still not enough to divert him.  This time, his hands joined in his exploration, his palm brushing over the hardened tip of her fabric-covered nipple, causing her to gasp and arch into him, hip to hip, his erection nestling in the cleft between her legs.

"That's my girl," he said with a chuckle.  

Another kiss, stronger, two sets of lips parting before they even met as their tongues swirled and explored the hot recesses of the other's mouth.  It left her shaking, suddenly far too warm as she swallowed down air in a desperate reminder that it was that precious commodity she required for living and not the smoky taste of his kisses that made her hunger so ravenously.  What was it that I had been so worried about? she wondered distractedly.

And then she remembered, and her hands came up, pushing against his chest to force him away.

"Spike," Buffy said, and this time managed to garner his attention.  When he turned those storm-colored eyes toward her, lids heavy with desire, she felt her resolve crumble.  "This…doesn't solve…everything," she managed to rasp.  "This…"  She gestured feebly between them, trying to indicate what exactly she meant when her words failed her.

He knew, just like he always seemed to know, and nodded in understanding.  "Not tryin' to pretend that it does," he replied.  Releasing his grip where it had curled into her waist, Spike remained within inches of her torso, fingers rising to sculpt the air around the curvature of her skull, down the flat of her shoulders to hover over her heart.  "You think I don't know how scared you are?  Don't know that you're flyin' by the seat of your pants here, tryin' to be all brave-like but not knowing what the hell you're doin' because you don't trust your gut any more?"  His gaze softened as hers went wide, and he smiled.  "I'm not completely blind to what you're goin' through, pet.  You trusted one man who you find out isn't what he seems, and now you don't know if you can trust me."

Though it was almost verbatim what she'd been thinking, Buffy still protested.  "I love you, Spike," she rushed.  "It's not---."

"Don't be a bunny and try to start defending it all away.  I've been around too long and seen far too much shit to be snowed by any pretty explanations, even if they do come from the most luscious mouth I've ever had the pleasure of kissing."  As if to accentuate his point, he leaned in quickly and snagged another taste of her lips, not allowing any other part of his body to touch hers though she ached to lean into him.  

"You want to walk, the door is right behind you…" Spike went on when they parted.  

_Walk?  He expects me to walk after that? _

"…and I'm not keepin' you here against your will.  I never will.  Can't promise I won't follow, or that I won't try to do everything in my power to convince you that I'm tellin' it to you straight, but I'm not Angel.  You don't have to fret about turning your back on me, and me turning into Mr. Hyde when you least expect it.  What you see is what you get."

"I know that," she whispered.  Every nerve in her body tingled, the truth of his words pinning her like a trapped butterfly, netting her though she batted feebly at the strings that caught her, aflutter and anxious not to be released all at the same time.   

"You're the only one who can decide if that's enough for you, Buffy.  You and me…something tells me that any road we go down might not always be smooth, or easy.  I can be a right bastard sometimes, and sometimes things come out of my mouth before I've had the chance to filter 'em through my brain.  But I love you.  And there isn't anything in this world I wouldn't do for you.  What you and me could have…it would be _real_.  That…I can promise you."

No sugar coating.  No sweet lies to try and convince her that he was some savior.  No word that came from his mouth remotely resembled anything Angel had ever said to her.  Where Angel had promised her the moon and the trip there in a gilded cage to protect her every step of the way, Spike pledged that she would always have her freedom to go where she wanted, to choose what she wished, and merely hoped that he would be included in those choices.  How could she not trust a man who did that for her?

Taking his hand in hers, Buffy pulled him away from the kitchen and toward the darkened bedroom.  "I think we better get around to that rest and relaxation you promised Giles," she said with a mischievous glance back at him over her shoulder.  "Tomorrow's a big day.  We've got to have you in tiptop condition."

His smirk made her want to giggle.  "So…is it my tip or my top you're interested in conditioning, pet?"  

*************

She had to fight back her smile as she watched him replace the spectacles back on his nose.  "So…do you actually _have_ any glass left in those lenses?" Jenny asked Giles, eyes disingenuous.

He refused to look at her, choosing instead to return his gaze back to the notes before him.  "They get dirty," he mumbled as an excuse.

"Uh huh."  Perching herself on the back of the couch, she added, "You do realize this is me trying to be friendly here, right?  I don't bite.  I've even been known to be mildly charming on the odd occasion.  So tell me something.  Why is it that I can't get you to say more than three words to me at a go, now that it's just you and me in the room?"

"I'm busy.  Tomorrow's a big day.  We must be prepared."  He looked up briefly, meeting her eyes.  "I believe that constitutes ten words.  Satisfied?"

"I guess I'll have to be."  Her foot began to jiggle nervously as she waited for him to speak again, but when it didn't come, she cleared her throat.  "Nope.  Changed my mind.  Let's chat.  Or doesn't the all-knowing right hand of Rook _like_ to chat?"

He put his pen down then, and his gaze was cold when it settled on her.  "Let's get something perfectly clear, Miss Calendar---."

"I told you to call me Jenny."

"I am not here to _chat_ with you, Miss Calendar.  And I'm not here to be either your confidant, or Wesley's friend.  Getting Spike out of this mess and back to California with a healthy Willow in tow is my primary concern, and regardless of the fact that your employer considers you trustworthy, I'm opting to refrain from judgment.  If that bothers you, well, then, that's _your_ problem, now isn't it?"

At the mention of the other woman's name, Jenny visibly softened, dark eyes glowing in pity.  "Your friend is in excellent hands, Rupert.  Wesley wouldn't allow otherwise, trust me."

She saw him glance toward the bathroom where Wes was showering, and then sigh heavily, his shoulders slumping.  "I know," he conceded.  "My apologies.  My temper is…a little short currently.  Perhaps I should've joined Faith in that cigarette."

In spite of his brusque attitude, Jenny's heart went out to him.  She'd been momentarily taken aback when Wesley had introduced him and Faith earlier, but in light of everything that had happened over the past few days---hearing from her boss for the first time in ages, his odd requests, his protectiveness of the young woman currently at St. Augustus---it made a bizarre kind of sense.  And helping come up with a plan to get Rook off the hook?  If that's what Wesley wanted, that's what Wesley got.  She trusted him implicitly.

"You should get some sleep," she said quietly.  "Like you said.  Tomorrow's going to be a big one.  And you've got a plan now, so that should be some relief, right?"

"Do you honestly believe it will work?"

His gaze was locked on the paper in front of him, but she knew he wasn't seeing it, that instead he was seeing blood and pale, red-haired women battling for his primary attention.  It was the same look she'd seen behind her friend's bruises, and her heart broke just a little bit more as comprehension dawned.  "Wesley does," she said simply.  "And that's good enough for me.  He doesn't do things halfway, you know."

"But…is that enough?"

She waited for him to look up, to witness her waiting for him to see her.  To see that she meant what she was about to say.  "It has to be," Jenny assured.  "He's your best chance at success right now."

*************

Standing underneath the spray, feeling it pelt his skin with pincer-like accuracy, Wesley watched the water spiral down the drain, the tiny flakes of the dried blood sloughing from his flesh peppering the porcelain.  Willow's blood.  Probably some remnants of his own, if the fresh sting of the cuts on his face was any indication.  And though he knew from the most recent call to the hospital that she was recovering well, in spite of not yet waking up, it did as little in relieving the tension from his limbs as the singeing heat of the shower.

If she'd been there, she would've hated the plan they'd come up with.  He was convinced of it.  He could just imagine her sitting at the table opposite him, with Giles at her side, eyes flashing in emerald brilliance as she argued its recklessness, trying to convince him to pursue a more rational approach to getting out of their dilemmas.

He'd never admit it to Giles, of course.  Give the other man the satisfaction in seeing him doubt?  Never.

And surely Willow would forgive him on the other side of it all.  Once she was back in California, and Spike was clear, and she had her whole life in front of her to do exactly what she wished.  That would make it all right.

Wouldn't it?

Having Jenny as support on this was an unexpected bonus.  Her cool head and eccentric ideas had afforded them a perspective that made him more confident in their triumph, and while he regretted that it might cost her her position within the agency if the truth ever came to light, he was grateful to have her on their side.

She'd taken the news of Rook in stride.

"Huh," she'd said.  "Well.  That sure explains a lot."

And that had been it.  She hadn't even blinked when he'd introduced Faith, in spite of the ex-hooker's caustic evaluation of Jenny's practical skirt suit that was the norm for the office, and while he wasn't sure what some of the looks she kept shooting Giles meant, at that moment, Wesley knew he didn't have the luxury of finding out.

In less than twenty-four hours, Spike would be free.

Or, they'd both be dead.

*************

The scent of his blood was making her mouth unexpectedly water, nostalgia made manifest in coppery ambrosia, and the way the viscous fluid clung to his hands looked like the art he brought to each and every one of his jobs.  Each step took him further away, and though she called after him, she could never quite see his face, hidden away in the night's gloom as if he was deliberately avoiding her gaze.

"William?  Where are you going, William?"

Always just a few steps behind, seeing that smirk he'd toss back at her when he'd catch her voice, his pallor even more spectral under the streetlamps when he passed through the golden pools that spotted the cement.

It was no mystery why she was dreaming about him.  In spite of everything, he would always be a part of her, whether he wanted to admit it or not, and she had always loved the grace and savagery with which he attacked the world, power and lithe energy that made her want to scream in ecstasy, even when it had looked as if he was losing his passion for it.

If he asked, she would allow him back in her circle, embrace him and give him whatever it was he asked.

But he wouldn't ask.  She knew that now.  Not with the songbird on his shoulder, whispering her secrets and lies into his ear.

Each step that echoed in the empty street tattooed a path into her skin, familiar and yet not, and she hesitated, looking up at the cold stars when their music began to be too loud to ignore.  "Can you hear them?" she asked, knowing he wouldn't answer.

Except he shocked her this time, stopping to turn and face her, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.  "It's the same little ditty they always sing, pet," he said.  "Don't know why it always surprises you."

She was seized by his feral beauty, standing frozen amid the songs echoing inside her skull, silently bleeding from the keen angles of his features. "I miss you," she said.

"No, you don't."

"I miss us.  Don't you?"

He didn't answer this time, just stood there and watched her with those deadly eyes, lips curled into his trademark sneer.  Hesitating for only a moment, she stepped forward, reaching out a hand to gently cup his cheek.

"You'll be the death of me one day, Dru," he murmured, and his features shifted, smoothing out, becoming broader, darkening…

Her eyes flitted open, and the face was there as well, kneeling at her side, half-hidden by the shadows cast by the moonlight filtering in her window.  She smiled, in spite of her questions as to just how exactly he'd gotten into her bedroom.  "Hello, Angel," she said.  "The stars told me you were coming."

He laughed, and for a moment, she wondered if he'd fallen from the skies himself, a fallen succubus deigning to find audience among the mortals.  "How do you feel about coming with me to heaven, Drusilla?" he asked, and held out his hand.

There was no hesitation as she took it, sitting up in her bed.  The bedclothes slipped down to expose her ivory shoulders, the red lace of her nightgown almost black in the darkened room.  "Is this a game?" she asked.  She'd waited a long time for him to notice her, and had done everything she could at the funeral to gain his interest, grateful that that Buffy had been absent for a change.  

The floor was icy beneath her feet as she rose, but the only sensation she was aware of was the branding of his fingers into her palm.

"The best kind," Angel replied with a nod.  "The kind where I win."

To be continued in Chapter 38: A Faithless Friend…


	38. A Faithless Friend

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Angel has shown up at Drusilla's in the middle of the night, Giles and Wesley have come up with a scheme they think will help Spike, and Kate has followed Lilah…

*************

Kate gripped the banister with the weary hand of the walking dead as she climbed the last few stairs, stopping at the landing and sighing heavily as she leaned against the wall.  She didn't need to look at her watch to know that it was five o'clock in the morning; the strains of Mr. and Mrs. Bird having their ritual pre-breakfast sex drifted down through the ceiling to announce the time better than any clock.  That also meant she had only two hours of potential sleep in front of her before she had to get ready to go back to the precinct.  Two hours wasn't going to be anywhere near enough.

Lifting the lids that seemed too heavy for her face, she trudged the few feet into the hall, rounding the corner and aiming herself blindly for her apartment door.  She immediately tripped over the outstretched feet of a waiting Riley, and cried out in surprise as her hands scraped against the worn carpet, only barely catching herself from a fully compromising position across his lap.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry!" Riley said, tensing and trying to stand with his hands beneath her armpits.

Kate grimaced as she teetered on her broken heel.  Well, at least I'm awake again, she thought as she looked down at her ruined stockings.  "Care to spill on why you're camping out in my apartment building?" she said ruefully, not even sparing him another glance.

"Waiting for you."  His hands were warm as they steadied her, lingering just long enough for her to regain her balance before vanishing back to his sides.  "Where have you been?"

"Out deciding you can keep your detective work," she retorted, and wobbled the remaining feet to her doorway.  "In fact, I've come up with a few ideas on where exactly you can stick it."  Digging around in the depths of her purse for her keys, she scowled as her fingernails sank into an open tube of lipstick.  Perfect.  What a great way to end my day.

"What've you been doing?" he asked.

"Keeping an eye on that Lilah Morgan like you asked.  Aha!"  She exclaimed the last as she extracted her key ring and held it up proudly, not even caring that at least two of the keys on it were coated in Simply Scarlet.  The sanctuary of her pillow was infinitely more important than a vanity item that really didn't do anything for her complexion anyway.

Hovering behind her as she fumbled with the lock, Riley's frown was confused.  "When did I ask you to stay out all night for that?  You know that's not what I meant.  It's not safe---."  His mouth clamped shut as she shot him a dirty look over her shoulder, pushing open the door at the same time to let him follow her inside.

"First of all," she said, kicking off her shoes as she dropped her purse and keys on the table by the door, "I spent most of the night in a taxi.  A very expensive taxi that you _will_ be getting a receipt for reimbursement in the morning.  Or in a couple hours, as the case may be."

The light she flipped on revealed the tidy apartment for his inspection, a worn divan in the center of the room with an orderly desk along the wall and far too many books opposite it.  "At least you were safe," he commented.  "Not like you went anywhere dangerous, right?"

"Unless you count the streets of Harlem high on the Our Town ratings guide."

He brightened, eyes shiny with the glee of a young boy at Christmas.  "Tell me you went there because of Miss Morgan."

"Yeah.  I thought that was obvious.  Why do you sound like this little bit of rumble fills you with sunshine, detective?"

Riley's grin was wide, and he settled himself on the couch with a proprietorial air, arms stretched out along the back of the cushions.  "Because I pinned a whole stack of phone calls from a certain Warren Meers to various places in Harlem just an hour ago," he boasted.

Her mouth gaped.  "You're pulling my leg here, right?"

"Nope.    Even got him locked up in a holding cell until we can get back to the precinct to grill him this morning."

All of a sudden, she didn't feel so tired anymore, his excitement contagious.  "We could go do it now," she rushed and almost sprinted for her bedroom door.  "Just let me get a new pair of shoes---."

"Hey, hold up."  She stopped when he rose from the couch.  "You haven't slept, and I'm not going to be the reason you're ornery when we _do_ go back in.  I just didn't stay on top of how late it really was.  I guess I was just so excited about where this is going, I let my manners slide."  He gestured toward the bedroom.  "You go sleep.  I'll let everyone know you'll be in a little late."

"What about Meers?"

There was something unexpectedly mischievous in his smile.  "A few extra hours in the clink aren't going to hurt him," he said.  "It might even make him more prone to talk when we get around to questioning him later."

*************

The fact that he'd only managed to get a couple hours of sleep meant nothing to Wesley as he pushed his way through the front doors of St. Augustus.  In many ways, the events of the past few week harkened back to his time at uni, long days leading into shorter nights, getting by on gallons of tea and the drive to succeed.  _Need_, rather, he amended.  Now even more so than then.  Willow's future depended on it.

Hope didn't even bothering checking his ID when he began fishing it out of his pockets, nodding toward the doors that led to the waiting room.  "Someone will come and get you to take you to her room if you wait where you were earlier," she said.

His murmured thanks drifted back as he tore through the hallway, stopping short when he nearly plowed over the young man who'd kept him updated during her surgery.  Neither said a word, the orderly turning on his heel to begin walking back into the direction from which he'd come, leading Wesley through the bowels of the hospital to Willow's room.

His hands were shaking as he reached up to push open the door, and for a moment, Wes hesitated, inhaling sharply to quell his racing nerves.  He'd nearly crashed twice on his way there; his concentration was being flogged into threadbare ribbons by his haste.  He just needed to hear her voice for himself, see that smile to reassure him that all of this was worth it.

Only a single lamp was lit within the tiny box of a room, illuminating the array of equipment that sat at the side of the single bed.  Spartan in its utility, but spotless and functional as only government-issued property could be, the dark green of the blanket wrapped tightly around her small form only served to heighten the pastiness of her complexion, the scarlet corona of her hair too vivid in spite of the dim lighting.

Her head was turned away when he entered, but the soft click of the latch closing behind him was enough to draw Willow's gaze, the movement inexorably slow, forcing time to crawl in direct opposition with the beating of his heart.  The blink of her lashes when she faced him made him desperately wonder if she could see him properly, and he stepped forward into the light, arms rigid at his sides.

"Hey there," she said.  It was more of a whisper, really, barely louder than the breath it took her to utter the greeting, but it was enough to make him smile, to allow himself to sink into the steady green of her eyes.

"Hello," he replied, and couldn't help but muse on why he was so formal all of a sudden.  "How do you feel?"  

She stopped, seemingly focusing her awareness inward, before saying, "Kind of icky.  I think I got shot."

The bluntness of her response punctured the strain within Wesley's torso, and he laughed as his head dropped, his shoulders slumping.  They had said she'd woken up coherent and strong, considering the dosage of the sedative she'd been given and the extensive damage done to her internally, but believing it was a luxury he hadn't been willing to give himself until he had the proof before him.

"Did it work?" Willow asked softly.  "Did everyone get out all right?"

Everyone, as in everyone other than her, he thought erratically, but nodded anyway, his hysterical amusement abating.  "They're all quite worried about you," he managed to say.  Stepping closer to stand directly at her side, he allowed his hand to drop to where hers rested on top of the blanket, stroking the back of it as if any pressure he might exert would crush it.  "You've even managed to scare Giles into being reasonably polite to me."

Her grin was wan.  "So, when do I get the bad news?  Because with the way everyone keeps skulking around this place, and you being the first person to really talk to me, something's telling me there's a big, black shadow just waiting to be all…shadowy."

For a moment, he thought she knew something he didn't, but quickly realized the truth of the matter.  "Oh, no, no bad news," he assured.  "It's just…you're not the normal clientele this hospital sees.  It's merely a precautionary measure on their part."

"Where am I?"

"A facility the government uses when they don't wish the police to get involved.  Someplace discreet.  I pulled a few strings to get you in here so that Spike's safety could be maintained."

"Strings…"  Her smile faded, and he could see her thinking.  Getting shot had done nothing to suppress her cognitive reasoning, and he braced himself for what he knew was about to come.

"But…they think you're dead," Willow said.  "Isn't that what you told me?"

"They did.  But it was the only way to get you treatment in time and avoid the detection of the local police.  I thought that you'd want Spike to remain out of harm's way."

"I do, and it's not that I'm not grateful for being all not-dead, but…"  She swallowed, and he felt the tremor begin to vibrate through her hand beneath his touch.  "What does this mean for you?"

"That's irrelevant."  He wasn't going to worry her about his own predicament, or the plans they had organized in an attempt to get him out of it.  "I did what had to be done.  The important thing is that the doctors say that you're going to be all right."

"No, that's _not_ the important thing," she argued.  Where before her complexion had frightened him with its remarkable mimicking of impending death, now twin spots of color were rising in her cheeks, her body's response to her mounting disquiet.  "What about---."

"I did what had to be done," Wesley repeated, this time his tone pointedly more firm.  "And you are in no position to debate this with me in your current condition.  You need to rest---."

"Why?  So I can dream about what my life will be like in California without you?"  Hoarse, and hurting with the same ache that had threatened his own soul since she'd been shot.

His hand tightened around hers.  "It won't be like that," he said.  "I'm doing everything in my power to sever my ties with the government.  You have to trust me, Willow.  Whatever happens…trust me."

The gleam in her eyes faltered.  "You…have a plan?" she asked feebly.  "You and Spike?"

"Would I make such promises if we didn't?"  Said with a soft smile, hoping that she would drop the matter once and for all.

It worked, and he watched as she melted into the mattress, exhaustion creeping back into her face.  "I think that gunshot put a couple holes in my head, too," she joked.  "I'm sorry.  I need to stop thinking so much."

"You wouldn't be Willow if you did."

"Do…you know how long I have to stay here?"

Though he wanted to lie, Wes knew that doing so would accomplish nothing.  "A few days, at the very least," he said.  "Traveling will be out of the question until they can be assured that you won't start bleeding internally from the exertion.  They're very good here, though.  You should want for nothing."

"And I guess…asking if you're going to be around for those days is out of the question.  What with…helping Spike and all."

He nodded.  "My assistant from DC is here, though, and she's going to be checking in on you when I can't.  I think you'll like her.  You two have a lot in common.  In fact, I believe she was even able to get Giles to smile before I left the hotel."

When her eyes fluttered shut, he knew that he'd overstayed his welcome, tiring her out when she needed most to be harboring her strength.  Carefully, he withdrew his hand from hers and took a step backwards.

"Don't go."  She didn't open her eyes, but instead reached for him, hooking her slim fingers around his.  "Please don't leave me alone right now."

"Of course not," he said, and stretched to pull the lone chair in the room close enough for him to sit at her side.  "Just…rest, Willow.  It's important that you rest and get well again."

"Easier with you here," she murmured.  Though her lids remained closed, her head tilted in his direction.  "Love you, Wesley," she said under her breath.

His soft smile beamed brighter than the light within the room.  "I love you, too," he replied, just as quietly, and settled back in his seat to watch her sleep.

*************

The pounding at his door roused Gino from his slumber, and he grumbled as he grabbed the robe that was draped over the end of the bed.  I should've figured having a night free was too good to be true, he thought as he trudged toward the door of his apartment.  Not even dawn yet.  Bet Drusilla wants me to take her out so that she can count the stars again before they turn in for the night.

"Who is it?" he barked, hovering on the inside of the door.  His gun dangled from his hand, but he seriously doubted he was awake enough to use it if it came down to a fight.  It just felt good to have its weight in his palm.

"I've got a message from Angel Wilkins."

"Then you're barbering at the wrong guy because I work for old man Conti."

"It's about Drusilla Conti, so if you've got half a brain in that thick noggin of yours, you'll open the door and take it before I plug you and go to the next guy on my list who might be interested."

Gino frowned.  Wilkins was not someone to cross, even if Gino did have the protection of his own boss to be sheltered by.  And it was entirely possible it was a valid message.  Drusilla had spent the better part of the Mayor's funeral doting and hanging on Angel when the opportunities arose.  The absence of the fiancée had scored points for her, though Gino sincerely doubted anything would come of Dru's little crush.  Wilkins was too obviously dizzy for the torcher to give anyone else the serious time of day.

Cocking his gun, he pulled open the door and leveled the weapon at the gaunt messenger on the other side.  "What is it?"

An envelope was thrust forward into his other hand.  "Everything's explained in that," the courier said.  His grin was sour as he tipped his hat and stepped away from the door.  "Have a nice day."

His first readthru of the note made Gino wonder if maybe the whole thing was a joke, if one of the boys was having an early April Fool's Day at his expense.  When he read it the second time, more slowly, pondering every word as he let it sink in, he decided that it was better to be safe than sorry, and hurried over to the phone.  It took only a couple minutes for him to get Gracie to confirm that Drusilla wasn't in her bedroom, and he swore her to secrecy as his eyes scanned the note yet again.  He didn't want to be the one responsible for starting a new war between the Manhattan families, which meant doing exactly what the note said before old man Conti got wind of something being off.

The only problem was…how in hell was he going to find Spike before sundown?

*************

Too many years spent either sleeping through or passed out during the dawn had made Spike forget just how beautiful the sunrise could be, or how rejuvenated walking down the sidewalk with everything outlined in gold and orange around him could make him feel.  The tickle of heat on the back of his neck was almost arousing, his shaft semi-hard already.  But that could've been the delicate scent of jasmine wafting from the small blonde beside him, or the way Buffy let her thumb outline the side of his palm as they walked hand in hand.  Hard to separate the two pleasures at the moment, he decided.

An early start to what was most likely going to be a long day, but Spike was confident that some kind of plan would be reached fairly early, if Ripper and Wesley didn't already have something lined up.  Buffy had made a suggestion or two on the ride over, and he was reminded yet again that there was a more than capable brain inside that pretty little head of hers, silently grateful that she hadn't run the previous night when he'd given her the opportunity.

Not that he doubted her feelings for him, or that he wanted her to go.  But he'd been down too many rough roads not to appreciate the courage making one's own choices instilled, and that was something he would never strip away from her.  Still, the fact that she'd chosen to stay was all he needed to boost his good mood this morning.

He was whistling under his breath as they rode the elevator up to Wesley's room, silent but not uncomfortably so.  It was just early, and they had had a very late night.  A very, _very_ late night, he amended with a half-smile.

It was only when they were standing outside the door, waiting for someone to come and answer their knock, that Buffy spoke up.  "Would you mind if Faith and I went out for some breakfast?" she asked.

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" he said.  "We could've grabbed a bite before showin' our mugs around here."

She shrugged.  "You guys have to work, and frankly, I'm going to bet Faith's climbing up the walls after spending the night with Giles and Wesley.  Academic pursuits are not exactly her forte, you know."

He knew she didn't want to have to be around while they talked about how to take Angel down, but Spike held his tongue, nodding in agreement instead.  "Probably a good idea," he said.  "Unless Ripper's already knocked her out for annoying him too much."

Buffy grinned.  "I'm not so sure Faith wouldn't win if it came down to a fight between her and Giles."

They were both chuckling when the door opened, and Spike immediately fell silent at the dark-haired beauty that stood before him.  Who in hell is that? he wondered as her eyes swept over him, and stole a glance at the room number to make sure he'd knocked at the right one.

"You have _got_ to be William Rook," she said.  "Though the bleached hair is new."

"Not that new," he growled.   "Where the bloody---?"  He cut himself off when Ripper appeared behind the woman, pulling the door open further to let them in.  "I realize we've taken on more stowaways in this job than is probably smart," Spike said to his friend, "but now's _not_ the time to be surprisin' me.  Not when my trigger finger is just itching for a little action."

It took a moment of bewilderment before he realized what Spike was saying.  "Oh," Giles said.  "Yes, of course.  Spike, this is Jenny Calendar.  Wesley's assistant."

"Wesley doesn't have an assistant," Buffy said slowly.

"Wrong," Jenny said.  "I've been his liaison with the government since he went undercover three years ago."  Her inspection of the blonde was curious, but friendly.  "So…who are you?"

"Buffy Summers."

Her brows shot up as both of them walked past her to enter the room.  "Looks like Wesley didn't tell me _everything_ then," she commented.

"Speaking of the bloke…"

"We got a call about Willow," Ripper said in explanation, prompting a single nod from Spike.  "And Xander called a few minutes ago to let us know that he and Mr. McDonald are on their way."

"Where's Faith?" asked Buffy.  "I was hoping we could go get some breakfast."

Spike was in mid-straddle of his chair when he realized that the room had gone silent in anticipation of a response to her query.  "Well?" he said.  "She out for a smoke or what?"

"Um…no.  Actually, she's…not here.  When we woke this morning…"  Giles sighed heavily.  "I'm sorry, Spike.  Faith is gone."

*************

He'd long been up when the knock came to his door.  Just because the sun had yet to rise was never a good enough excuse for Wood to waste the hours it protected.  "Come in!" he called out as he straightened his tie in the mirror.

"You got a visitor," Trick said before he'd even stepped into the room.

"If you tell me it's Wilkins, I'm docking you a week's pay for spoiling my breakfast," he retorted.  "I am _not _in the mood to be staring at his ugly mug this morning."

"I've been told my mug's just a little bit prettier than Angel's.  Although, the way he messed it up last time, maybe I should just count on my other talents to keep you entertained for awhile."

Wood's eyes narrowed as he watched her saunter into the room like she owned the place, yanking her arm free when Trick tried stopping her from approaching.  "This is…unexpected," he said noncommittally, and turned back to his reflection, making it appear as if he was busying himself with his tie rather than watching her run her fingers over the mahogany chair against the wall.  "It's Faith, right?  Shouldn't you be out doing the hokey pokey with my lawyer?  Or is it Rook's man that's got your interest?  What was his name again?"

"His name means squat, and if your boys had done their job yesterday instead of going down in a blaze of not-so-much-glory, you'd've realized that I was being hustled by Rook."  She dropped into the chair, legs crossing to expose her curvaceous calf and half of her thigh as her skirt rode up.  "Kind of like how you're being railroaded by Angel."

That made him stop, and Wood turned to stare down at her, thick arms folded across his chest.  "There is no railroading being done here."

She shrugged.  "Just call 'em like I see 'em, tiger.  From where I'm sitting, you seem to be minus one lawyer who knows all your dirty little secrets, and the man you want behind bars for offing your sister.  And we both know that Angel's a cheap bastard who'll get out of paying for something if there's any way he can help it.  How am I doin'?"

"You'd be doing a lot better if you hadn't gotten two of my men killed yesterday."

"Like I had a choice in the matter," she spat.  "In case Mr. Trick here didn't make it clear, I had a fucking gun to my head at the time.  Kind of puts a damper on a girl's inclination to run like hell."

"And you're here now…why again?"

She leaned forward then, doe eyes gleaming with barely repressed anger.  "Because you and me got two things in common.  The way I figure it, we can help each other out.  Tit for tat, as they say."

"Your tit for my tat?  No thanks.  If I wanted a pro skirt to make my life more interesting, I've got a whole stable I could pick from."

Though his tone was condescending, she held her chin high, confident in what she was about to say.  "You find me another filly who can tell you exactly where you can find William Rook, you be my guest."  She grinned at the sudden hungry glint in his eyes.  "Thought that might perk you up."

"Fine.  Consider me perked.  What is it you're proposing?"

"A partnership.  To get what we both want."  Rising to her feet, Faith closed the distance between them, lifting her hands to adjust the slightly askew knot of Wood's tie.  "Take Angel down, and make Spike pay for killing someone we love.  Sound like a deal?"

When her hands fell back to her sides, he turned to look at his reflection in the mirror, noting the perfection of his tie before meeting her eyes where they gazed back at him in the glass.  "You've got yourself a deal," he said.

To be continued in Chapter 39: Finders Keepers…


	39. Finders Keepers

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Both Riley and Kate are onto Wood; Angel has had a note delivered to Gino regarding Drusilla, leaving the bodyguard wondering how to get a hold of Spike; Faith has left Wesley's hotel and sought out Wood; while Spike and the others are trying to get his predicament sorted…

*************

Outside of Spike perched at the open window, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, Lindsey was the only person in the room standing, and he gaped at the others as his gaze swiveled around.  "Is this _really_ the way you people work?" he demanded.  "You're insane.  The lot of you."

"You're only now sussing that out?"  Though his tone was dry, the amusement glinted in Spike's eyes at the lawyer's consternation.  "Seems to me, you've been the only one all along with the lowdown on what we were, _and_ you've been the one who's been our chump most often on this particular job.  My thinking says you should've rated this on the more mundane side of that scale compared to the rest."

"The rest, as you so casually put it, didn't put me directly into the line of fire," Lindsey countered.

Xander raised his hand.  "Actually, that's not entirely true," he said.  "You stood just as much of a shot getting plugged yesterday as the rest of us."

"And this time, the bullets will be purely metaphorical," Giles added.  "I should think you'd consider that a valuable advantage."

"Unless, of course, you keep nattering on about how we're all daft, in which case, I might just shoot you myself just to put you of my misery," Spike said nonchalantly.

Lindsey paled at the threat, but didn't move, steeling his jaw instead.  "Look, Rook," he said, "I'm not one of your little toadies.  Any type of arrangement between us is purely professional, so pardon me if I'm not just a little worried about coming out alive on the other side of all this."

"Perhaps allying yourself with Spike is the one sure way you can count on that," Wesley commented coldly.

"And perhaps that's a sentiment you should share with Miss Rosenberg," Lindsey shot back.

"Stop it!"  Buffy's voice rang out even as she saw each of the men in the room tense to rise, stilling its occupants in spite of their mounting desires to act.  Her eyes flashed as she waited for the friction to ease, finally turning to face the lawyer herself.  "Not that I'm exactly on the isn't-this-swell wagon with this hare-brained plan either---."

"Hey!"

"---but considering what we've got to work with, I don't see any of us having much of a choice here," she finished, ignoring Spike's indignant outcry.

"Faith got a choice," Lindsey said.  

Spike's eyes were flint.  "Faith's a big girl.  And we're not goin' to bring her up _again_, hear?"

"Besides…"  This was Jenny, speaking up for the first time from her position on the couch.  "…you said yourself that you haven't even been into the New York office.  That all your dealings with them have been via telephone.  So, it's not like they can recognize you, right?"

She had a point, though he would never admit it to the group.  "Lilah could be there."  It was Lindsey's last attempt to force their hand into finding another way; he was out of arguments after this one.

"She won't be."  The line of Giles' mouth was drawn tight, the barely repressed anger twisted inside his body held frighteningly in check.  "I'll see to that."

And that is the proverbial that, the lawyer thought in resignation.  "Fine," he said.  "But we better get moving if you want it done today.  A little bit of shopping is in order if we want to pull this off.  I'm not going in wearing Harris' castoffs."

*************

She let herself sleep in a little.  In spite of the fact that she was due to go into the office for an afternoon telephone conference with Holland, Lilah was indulging in just a taste of sloth as she rolled over between the sheets.  Considering how she'd spent the last twenty-four hours, between Rook's car ride through hell and Wood's relentless interrogation regarding the status and future progress of the case, she felt she had it coming.  So what if she didn't wear any make-up for the call?  It wasn't as if Holland could see her anyway.

But everyone else would.  Damn it.

She sighed and kicked back the covers in frustration.  Just once she wished she could muster the nerve to say to hell with it and look less than perfect.  Besides, if word got back to the LA office that she looked like death warmed over, Lilah had no doubts that Holland would question her capabilities in handling a case such as this.  And if she wanted to succeed in this world, she needed to pull it off.

Staying alive would be good, too, of course.

When the knock at her suite door echoed into the bathroom, she briefly considered ignoring it.  Wouldn't it be nice just to forget that the rest of the world exists for a little bit? she mused as she stared at her wan reflection.  Except it could be Trick again, ready to take her into round two with Wood.  Or it could Wilkins deciding to finally throw his cards into the game.

It might even be Lindsey, deciding that he was ready to come crawling back.  The bastard.

"Just a minute!" she called out, grabbing the skirt that hung over the back of the nearby chair.  She stepped into it as she walked to the door, tucking the back of her blouse in as she hesitated on her side of the egress.  A quick pinch of her cheeks to give her just a little bit of color in lieu of make-up, and Lilah fashioned her widest fake smile before pulling the door open.

"Can I help you?" she asked brightly as her gaze flickered over the tweedy appearance of her visitor.  Older, late forties probably.  Attractive in a bookish kind of way.  And oddly familiar, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

He fumbled with his glasses, straightening them on his nose, although they looked perfectly fine to her.  "Yes, quite," he said.  As he cleared this throat, he switched the briefcase that dangled from his right hand into his left.  "I'm looking for Miss Morgan."

"You've found her.  What exactly can I do for you?"  British guy.  Huh.  Why did it seem that she should know who this guy was?

"Oh, splendid," he said, and before she'd realized it, he'd pushed his way past her and entered the suite.  "I'm afraid that I confused the floor numbers and spent the last half hour knocking at half the doors downstairs.  My apologies for being so late."

As she watched, he propped the briefcase on the sofa table and opened it up, revealing sheaves of paperwork inside.  "Excuse me, but do we have an appointment?" Lilah asked, stepping forward.

"Well, yes, for…"  He looked down at his watch and grimaced.  "…half an hour ago, I'm afraid.  Again, my sincerest apologies.  Mr. Manners will be most distressed that I---."

"Hold on."  This was slipping from odd to just outright wrong, and she folded her arms across her chest as she tried to stare him down.  "Why would Holland send some paper-pusher over here when I'm supposed to be in the office in less than an hour to talk with him on the phone?"

His hands hesitated, and then dropped from the briefcase, slipping into his coat pockets as his shoulders slumped slightly.  "Why would he indeed?" the man parroted.  When he lifted his eyes to hers, though, it was paralleled by his arm and the gun that he'd just extracted from his pocket.  "Please have a seat, Miss Morgan," he instructed, gesturing with the revolver toward the straight-backed chair against the wall.

She remained where she was, eyes probing his until the connection was made in her brain.  "Rupert Giles…" she said out loud.  _Damn.  I should've been paying closer attention to Lindsey's photographs._

"Have a seat," he repeated.  Gone was the fluster of the new arrival, replaced by the cool muzzle of his gun and his no-nonsense attitude.  "I'd really rather not have to explain the body, if you get my meaning."

Slowly, Lilah backed toward the chair he indicated, never taking her eyes from his as he matched her step for step.  "So what is it you and Rook have against me?" she joked as she sat down.  She jumped slightly when he reached down and pulled the seat away from the wall.  It wasn't until she saw him pull out the handcuffs that she understood what he intended.  

"You have this unerring habit of getting in our way," Giles said.  One silver bracelet was snapped around her wrist before she could stop him, and she had to blink when she realized that he'd managed to cuff her to the chair without ever having to fumble with his gun.  _Maybe Lindsey didn't have a choice yesterday_, she thought.  _It's so hard to remember how professional these guys really are until they're cuffing you to your own furniture.  And not even in a fun way._

"I could scream," she said, though the threat was hollow.  They both knew he wouldn't hesitate to shoot if she did something like that.

Ignoring where she was now bound to the chair, Giles crossed to the telephone and quickly dialed a number.  "It's safe," he said after a moment, and then hung up without another word.

"What's safe?"

"If you'd rather not have your mouth taped," he said, settling himself into the couch in a position where he could keep the gun trained on her, "I suggest you clam up.  I'm really not in the mood."

Fuck, she thought.  Something's going down they need me out of the way for.  So much for my brilliant idea of sleeping in.

It could've been worse, though.  She could've been handcuffed in Rook's car with the maniac tearing through the streets of Manhattan.  At least this time, she seemed to draw the civilized one of the bunch.

*************

"I still say you're all crazy," Lindsey muttered as he watched the numbers tick over above the elevator doors.  

"And if you want this to stand a snowball's chance in hell of working, you're not going to say anything else until we get into the record room," Buffy warned.  

She fidgeted with the glasses Spike had insisted she wear.  "Makes you look more intelligent-like," he'd said.

"Does that mean you think I normally look stupid?" she'd retorted.

"Not touchin' that one with a ten-foot pole," he'd smirked and bolted from the room with a laugh when she'd thrown her shoe at him.

So now here she was, riding in an elevator with Lindsey and Xander, on her way to Wolfram and Hart's Manhattan office.  Behind her, both men fidgeted, Lindsey because of his trepidation regarding getting caught and Xander because he swore that his tie was too tight.  Neither was doing anything to calm her racing nerves.

"Normally, we'd have Red pullin' the secretary spot," Spike had explained.  "But seein' as she's out of commission…"

"Why do they need a secretary at all?" she'd argued.  She hated doing the acting thing; she'd hated it when she'd pulled it on Spike the night they met, and she hated it whenever she was thrust into a situation where it was warranted.  She hated feeling so false.

"Because no receptionist is going to believe that we're showing up for a deposition without a paralegal of some sort," Lindsey had explained.  

"But how do we know there's even a deposition scheduled for this afternoon?"

He'd rolled his eyes at that.  "Because this is Wolfram and Hart," he'd said.  "There's _always_ a deposition scheduled."

The doors swooshed open in front of her and she exhaled the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding.  This is easy, Summers, she told herself.  First your right foot, then your left.  Make nice with the receptionist.  Get inside and be friendly and then stand the hell back.

And just as it had been predicted, the receptionist called after them when they breezed through the front doors and past her desk.  The two men hesitated, but it was Buffy who stepped forward, smiling down at the other woman.

"May I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"We're so late, I'm so sorry, we must've really thrown your schedule off," Buffy rushed.  She didn't have to pretend to be breathless; she actually was.  "We're supposed to be sitting in on the deposition this afternoon, and the traffic was just awful getting across town.  Would you believe that one guy actually---?"

"There's no deposition scheduled for this afternoon."

Crap.  So much for your theory, Lindsey, Buffy thought as her mind raced for some suitable explanation.

Before she could open her mouth though, he'd stepped up from behind her.  "If you want to be the one to explain to Linwood he's going to have to miss his weekly dinner with the Senior Partners just because we're running late, you be my guest," he said.  The receptionist blanched.  "Me, I'd rather get my ass in there so I don't have to worry about losing my head because some dumb hack turned left instead of right.  I'm sure you understand."

He didn't wait for a reply, merely pivoted on his heel and began stalking down the hallway, Xander right on his heels.

"I better…catch up," Buffy managed, and hurried after them, hoping against hope that the receptionist was startled enough by how much Lindsey knew not to question anything more.  She drew level with them when he stopped in front of a closed door and hissed as they slipped inside, "What happened to keeping your mouth shut?"

He pulled the blind that covered the window overlooking the hall and locked the door.  "I'm more interested in staying alive and you sure as hell weren't doing it for me," he said.  Gesturing toward the nearest of the filing cabinets that lined the walls, he added, "You better get started on finding those files.  We've got ten minutes tops to get what we need and get out of here.  Any longer, and someone's going to start asking questions."

She stopped talking then, fingers flying over the folders tucked away like paper prizes inside the drawers.  Anything on Wood or Wilkins, she'd been told.  Just grab it all.  They needed all the evidence they could get their hands on if the deal Wesley was making was going to hold.

*************

"You're a very brave man."

Wesley blinked.  Not the words he'd been expecting to hear after making his proposal to his old employer.  _Still_ employer, he corrected.  For as long as Willow needs care.

At his side, Jenny shifted in her seat, leaning forward to touch the edge of the desk.  "It's really in your best interest, Mr. Snyder," she started, only to be cut off by the lifting of his hand.

"I don't believe I was addressing you, Miss Calendar," he said, his beady eyes never wavering from Wes'.  "Like I was saying, it takes a very brave man to suggest we wipe the slate clean for one of the most notorious gangsters in New York history, just because you think he's…_redeemable_, I believe was your word choice."

"That's not the only reason, sir," Wesley argued.  "With Rook's aid, we can put two of the city's family heads behind bars.  It will decimate their ranks.  Crime will---."

"---go on, just as it always does," Snyder finished.  "The other families will pick up the slack.  That's the way the game is played."

"You were eager enough for me to pursue the Mayor.  Why is this different?"

"If you can't see that Rook's just as dangerous as Wilkins or Wood, you've been away from us too long, Wesley.  I don't cut deals with criminals."

"Spike's been straight for five years---."

"Which would explain why he offed the Mayor on _your_ watch, of course."  Snyder sighed, shaking his head.  "What happened to you, Wesley?  You had so much potential.  And now you're using government resources to save common grifters?"

"She's not common!"  He'd jumped to his feet in his exclamation, leaning forward to put his face into his employer's as fury danced behind his glasses.  "And you're a fool if you don't see the value in this arrangement.  If you don't take it, you walk away with nothing.  Not Wilkins.  Not Wood.  Not Rook."

"I'll have you.  In jail, most likely, for obstructing justice.  Unless you hand Rook over right now."

"What if we were able to toss Wolfram and Hart into the kitty?" Jenny interjected.

Both men froze, staring at her for a long minute before exploding at the same time.

"You're not suggesting Lindsey---."

"You can do that?"

"Spike would never allow---."

"They're huge.  They represent a massive---."

"You're not answering my question," Jenny interrupted, ignoring her friend's confusion.  "If Rook helps us deliver Wilkins, Wood, _and_ Wolfram and Hart---," she glanced at Wes, "---minus one Lindsey McDonald---," and then back to Snyder, "will you clear his record?"

The air was suddenly cold as Snyder leaned back in his chair, fingertips tapping against their opposite in a steeple in front of him as he regarded her words.  "I suppose this means you'll be wanting to leave the organization if I agree to this," he finally said to Wesley.

He held his chin high.  "It would be my first choice, but I'll do whatever you deem appropriate, sir."

"Three for the price of one…"

"In writing, of course."  His mouth was firm while he regarded Snyder.  "We've already drawn up an agreement for you to sign.  This only happens if you guarantee with your signature that once Spike's done his part, you'll do yours."

Against his will, the corner of Snyder's mouth lifted.  "You sound like you don't trust me."

"I don't.  Is it a deal?"

"Wilkins, Wood, Wolfram and Hart," he repeated.  

"_And_ the New York police look like patsies because Rook will slip through their fingers again," Wesley added.

Snyder's eyes gleamed.  "Ooo.  I like that."  A long pause.  "Fine.  I believe something can definitely be arranged for Mr. Rook.  We'll have to amend your contract to include Wolfram and Hart, of course."

He couldn't resist sharing a smile of satisfaction with Jenny.  "Of course."

*************

She felt like a child waiting for the minutes to tick by to Christmas morning as she paced in front of the closed interrogation room door, her nerves thrumming bumblebee wings up and down her arms.  There was plenty of paperwork waiting for her back in her office to distract her, an avenue she'd tried when she'd first hit the precinct, but after half an hour of staring at the same evaluation, Kate had given up, seeking out Riley only to learn that he'd been grilling Meers for the better part of the morning already.

She knew she couldn't actively participate.  She was a victim liaison, not a criminal investigator, and while she loved her job, part of her wished that she could get into the thrill of the hunt with Riley and his partners.  The taste she'd had, in spite of the mind-numbingly boring tail of Lilah Morgan, was proving a greater exhilaration than anything else she'd ever experienced professionally.

Maybe Riley would let her help on his next case, too.

She jerked to a halt when the door opened and the cop in question stepped out, face solemn.  Their eyes met, and for a fleeting second she felt her stomach drop.  He didn't get anything, she thought.  How did he not get anything?

"What happened?" she blurted, and then bit her lip when he glanced with a frown at the door that was still open in his hand.  She waited until he'd pulled it closed, the latch resounding down the empty corridor, and inched closer.  "What happened in there?"

His eyes remained downcast as he stayed silent, intent on her shoes, and the sudden urge to just grab his shoulders and shake the information out of him surged through her.  "It's not good," he said in a low voice, shaking his head.

Her throat constricted.  All that work for nothing.  Damn it.

When his gaze lifted, though, there was a strange twinkle dancing in the clear depths.  "We have to take another trip out to Harlem, and I know how much you hate that place---."  Riley laughed as her hand shot out and slapped his forearm, straightening then with a smile.  "What?" he asked innocently.  "You hate Harlem.  You told me so this morning."

"You're a pig, you know that, Finn?"

"It's not going to be anything exciting," he warned, sobering.  "It's not our jurisdiction, so we can't do anything official without some connection to Wilkins.  But if you're interested in coming along and helping me keep an eye on everything, you're welcome to join me."

Kate smiled as she began walking with him down the hallway toward her office.  "With that stunt you just pulled, the least you owe me is to let me drive."

"You're kidding, right?  You drive like a girl," he teased.

"Better than shooting like one."

"Ooo, low blow, Lockley."

"Just keep it up, Finn.  You'll see how low I can go."

"That a promise…?"

Their laughter floated back down the corridor, dissipating into nothing as they rounded the corner and disappeared

************

Spike's fist crushed the empty cigarette pack, the crunching of the paper too loud in the empty hotel room.  In the two hours everyone had been gone, he'd managed to finish off his last deck of smokes and his muscles were still screaming for more, for the sated release nicotine usually gave him from his stress.  Make that wailing, he amended as he began to stalk the perimeter of the lounge.  Banshees, the lot of them, and experience told him they wouldn't quiet until everyone was back, safe and sound.

Logically, he understood why he was currently confined.  Couldn't show his mug around the lawyer's office for fear of being recognized.  Couldn't do anything about the Lilah dame for the same reason.  Couldn't tag along with Wesley and his aide on the off-chance they decided to nail him then instead of taking the deal.

Couldn't, couldn't, couldn't.

He was going to be glad when his life returned to can, can, can.  Dancing into the sunlight with Buffy on his arm.  That was going to be good.

What had McDonald's knickers in a twist, he really had no idea.  It was the simplest of plans.  Walk in, take the files they needed to give the feds their ammo, walk out.  Duck soup.

So long as no one shot the duck.

But he trusted the lot of them.  Spike's escapade the previous day with Lilah confirmed for him that Ripper would have an easy time of it.  Calling ahead had told them that she was still in the suite; it was really a wonder how easy it was to get a dame to talk when you had a silver tongue and an accent to match.  And Harris and Buffy could more than hold their own if it resorted to violence at Wolfram and Hart.  He wasn't so sure about McDonald, but the shyster's reluctance to take a less than easy route to save his own skin was all Spike needed to confirm his dedication to the task at hand.

It didn't make waiting any easier, though.  Perhaps a shower to ease the tension---.

The knock at the door brought him up short, and he was across the room, pulling it open before whoever was on the other side could rap again.  Spike frowned when he saw Mickey's face smiling back at him, and then frowned even further when Clem appeared behind the man's shoulder.

"You are the hardest gee to track down," his old friend commented.  Turning his head, he lifted his hand and waved someone in the corridor closer.

When Gino's mammoth form filled the entrance, Spike stepped back, allowing the three men to enter the suite.  "What is this about?" he demanded once the door was shut behind them.

Silently, Gino held out an envelope, waiting to speak until Spike had scanned it over.  "You see I had no choice," he said quietly.  "Wasn't sure I'd find you in time, neither.  Wasn't for Clem here…"

Why it surprised him, Spike didn't know.  He'd had his suspicions about Angel all along, how far he'd gone and how far he would go to manipulate Buffy's past and present and future.  And she'd already told him about Dru's interest in the wanker.  Anyone worth their salt in the business knew about Spike's past with the Conti family; this was the perfect manipulation.

So why did it stun him so?

"Fucking hell…" he muttered as the words swam before his eyes.  

"You're goin' to help me out on this, right?" Gino asked.  "I mean, I know you're dizzy for that torcher dame now, Clem was just givin' me the lowdown on what's been goin' on when he recognized her name in the note.  But…this is goin' to put everyone in dutch if he follows through on that threat.  Not just me.  I can take care of myself.  This is goin' to mean a knockdown, dragged out war if it goes down."  Silence.  Only the harsh rustle of the paper as Spike handed back the envelope filled the room.  He tried again.

"It's _Drusilla_, Spike.  In spite of everything…you're not goin' to just let him get away with this…are you?"

Even as he said the words, Buffy's face rose before his mind's eye, glowing and strong and _his_, and Spike shifted his shoulders, the audible crack of his back as he did so punctuating his voice.  "Bastard's goin' to roll," he said.   When he turned back to look at his friends, his face was a brittle mask of loathing and icy wrath.  "Who wants to watch the show?"

To be continued in Chapter 40: Unto Those Who Sin…


	40. Unto Those Who Sin

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Gino has shown up at the hotel to deliver the note to Spike, enlisting his aid in helping Drusilla; Faith has gone to Wood; Wesley has managed to snag an agreement regarding Spike; Riley has learned from Warren about Wood in Harlem; and Buffy, Lindsey, and Xander have walked into Wolfram and Hart's offices to steal files as ammo on Wood and Angel…

*************

She almost didn't see him.

If Xander hadn't laid on the horn when the cab cut him off, Buffy would never have grabbed her armrest and turned her head to look out the window.  She wouldn't have seen the dark-haired moose of a man dart between the parked cars to cross the street---and why did he look so familiar?---and she certainly would never have seen Clem disappearing into the shop just ahead of him.

"Stop here," she ordered, a frown creasing her brow.

"I'm just going to park around the corner," Xander said.  "You can't wait an extra two minutes before seeing Spike again?"

"I need to get something from the drug store," she said, reaching for her seatbelt.  "I'll be upstairs as soon as I'm done."

Her fingers were poised on the handle even before he eased the car to the side of the road, and she had hopped out into the traffic before Xander could complain any further.  Good thing he didn't press, she thought as she waved at a black sedan that slowed enough to let her pass.  She wasn't sure how she could explain being unsettled by seeing Spike's friend so near to where he was currently hiding.  That would lead to necessary explanations on how she recognized him in the first place, and by the time those were out of the way, he'd be gone.  Right now, with everything still so up in the air, that was the last thing Buffy wanted.

It wasn't difficult to spot him once she was inside.  Pushing the glasses she was still wearing up her nose, she strode down the aisle opposite him, watching as he picked up tube after tube of cream before replacing them back on the shelf.  Her hand fell to the clasp on her purse, silently unlatching it so that she could slip her fingers inside and curl around the butt of the revolver tucked there.  Not that she would ever do anything like that in a public place---well, not if her life didn't depend on it, at least---but maybe he'd remember her from their previous encounter and be more willing to talk to her if he thought she was a threat.  The silent thrill of that was almost intoxicating.

"If you're looking for the good stuff," she said brightly when she was stopped opposite him, "there's a much better shop over on Madison Avenue.  They've got creams there that'll make your face look like a baby's bottom."

His doubletake almost made her giggle out loud, but Buffy retained her composure as Clem hurriedly dropped the tubes that were in his hands.  "Oh, hi there," he said in a rush.  His small eyes darted around the room, and when he sidled sideways toward the front door, she matched his movement.  "Fancy meeting you here."

"You know, I was just thinking the same thing.  Not exactly your neighborhood, is it?"

"Oh, no, this is totally my neighborhood.  I hang out here all the time.  I've got…friends, you know…"  Clem froze when Buffy casually adjusted her bag so that he could see her hand sitting inside it, visibly swallowing past the lump that had obviously formed in his throat.

"Like Spike?" she asked, still cheery.

His confusion was genuine for a moment.  "Spike?  Who's---?"  Then it clicked, and the small beadiness of his gaze turned into huge saucers just waiting for a big cup.  "Oh, you mean William.  Oh, no.  I haven't seen him since, well, you know---."

"Hey, we got time to grab some grub before we take off for Heaven with William---?"

She'd never seen Clem move so fast, darting forward to stand between her and the tall man she'd seen follow him into the store.  "Ixnay on the eavenhay," he hissed, and jerked his head behind him.

"Huh?  What's that?" the other man said.  His gaze only momentarily flickered over Buffy before turning back to his friend.  "What's got you so tied up in knots?"

"That would be me," she offered, and waited for both men to look at her before speaking again.  "So.  Do we want to try this one again, Clem?  Because with the kind of week I've been having, you really don't want me to get sore at you, too.  My trigger finger is just as itchy as Spike's is."

Huge, massive bluff on her part, but they didn't know that.  This was Spike's friend, and she wouldn't go so far as to actually hurt him.  If he didn't tell her what she wanted to know, she'd just have to take it to the hotel room and wring it out of a certain bleached blond.  She couldn't shake the feeling, though, that she'd get the truth and more of it a helluva lot sooner here than with Spike.

"You're the torcher," the dark man said, eyes suddenly wide.  "Shit."

"Hence, the ixnay," Clem muttered, and sighed.

They weren't running.  Bonus points for her that they more closely resembled deer caught in headlights than the gangsters she knew them to be.  She was about to ask them again what was going on when the frown on the dark man's face suddenly told her exactly who he was, flashes of his grim visage scrambling for recognition inside her brain.  She didn't know his name, but what he was---and, more importantly, who he worked for---screamed at her for attention.

"What does Drusilla Conti have to do with Spike and Heaven?" she asked.  Each word splintered with ice shavings, her eyes flashing emerald-bright, and Buffy's fingers curled reflexively around her gun.  Fear boiled inside her stomach, burning her esophagus as it threatened to rise, and she struggled to not let any of it show.  _Believe in him_, her heart kept whispering.  _He wouldn't do this to you, you know that.  Spike won't hurt you_.

"You're not supposed to know," Clem said slowly.  "It's better if you don't.  Trust me."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

"Because he's only doing it to protect you," the other man---Drusilla's bodyguard---interjected.  "It's the only reason he's not taking you like the note said to---."

"Gino!"

He flushed a deep crimson at the slip of his tongue, and actually shrank behind Clem's smaller form.  "You didn't hear that," Gino said to her hurriedly.  "I didn't say nothin' about a note."

"So don't tell me.  Show me."

"What?"

"The note."  Her eyes caught the guilty glance the two men shared, and she felt her patience begin to fray.  "It's either that, or I drag the two of you back to the hotel at gunpoint so that Spike can see up close and personal how you guys have managed to spill the beans."

It was out of the bodyguard's pocket before she could blink, and Buffy stifled the tremble in her fingers as she extracted it from the creased envelope.  She couldn't hold back her widening disbelief as she read it over, though.

No.  He wouldn't.  Not Angel.

Except…he'd done other things she'd thought unimaginable.  All of a sudden, this almost seemed like small potatoes.

And she knew exactly why Spike had wanted to keep it silent.  To keep her out of the loop, though the note clearly demanded that he bring her along if he wanted Drusilla to remain unharmed.

So much for promises.

*************

Spike was the only one who looked up when Buffy slipped inside the hotel room door, the frown that had been wrinkling his brow smoothing somewhat when she shot him a small smile.  A sheaf of papers was in his hands as he leaned against the mantle, and she quickly noticed that Wesley and Jenny had returned in her absence.

"Thought you needed to pick something up," Spike said, glancing at her empty hands.

"They were out," she replied automatically, and dropped her purse on the side before approaching the group.  "How did it go for you?" She tossed the question to Wes, standing before him as he glanced up from the stack of files they'd retrieved from Wolfram and Hart.

"Oh, splendidly," he said.  "Snyder agreed to the contract---."

Spike's snort cut him off.  "Only after your girl Friday here tossed the lawyers in for good measure," he said.

"Can we do that?" Buffy asked.  "Does that fit in with the plan?"  Deliberately, she avoided Spike's gaze.  She wasn't ready to let it slip just yet that she knew he'd already tossed the plan out the window.

"With these records, there should be no problem implicating Wolfram and Hart in any number of shady dealings," Wesley said.

"Except for the fact that it's my name over most of the documents," Lindsey complained.

"That's temporary," Jenny interceded.  "We've got Lilah's signature on at least one of them.  It shouldn't take me any time at all to copy it over and replace all yours with hers."

Buffy's eyes widened.  "And again, I'm going to go with the, can we do that?"

Wes was the one who replied.  "It's done.  Or it will be.  Combined with the files you guys took, there's no way Snyder can complain about the contract with Spike."

"Which is givin' me a soddin' headache reading," the man in question complained, tossing the papers down onto the coffee table before taking long strides toward the door.  "You lot have your fun.  I'm goin' to get see about sortin' out these lungs of mine and grabbin' some fresh air for a change."

She stepped into his path, her heart thumping in her chest.  "Where are you going?" Buffy asked.

The tension in his jaw eased, his knuckles lifting to brush against her cheek.  "Just goin' a bit stir crazy in this room, pet," he said softly.  "Fancy a bit of a walk is all."

"I'll come with you."

Her stomach plummeted when he shook his head.  "You've had a bitch of a day already.  You should rest up, eat with the others when they get something in."  His lips dipped to glide across her jaw, stopping to caress the hollow of her ear.  "And then," Spike continued, his voice like raw silk against her skin,  "when you're good and sated, I'll be back to take care of any other hungers you've got rumbling around in there."

She felt his smile rather than saw it, the air around her suddenly clammy and close as he skirted around her and walked out the door.  He was actually going.  And he was lying about it on top of it.

She wasn't entirely sure if she was hurt or angry.

The door slammed harder behind her than she intended, and Spike stopped in his tracks midway down the hall.  "What is it?" he asked.  "Don't tell me I forgot something."

"You did."  She folded her arms under her breasts, trying to still the shaking in her hands.  "Me."

With a tilt of his head, Spike smiled and closed the distance between them.  But when he lifted his fingers to touch her this time, Buffy took a definitive step away back away from him.  "Don't tell me you're goin' to be all piss and vinegar about this," he said.  The slight flash in the sapphire coincided with the twitching in his jaw.  "I'm just goin' to be out and about for a few hours.  You're not the one who's been holed up in that bloody hotel room all day, reaching the end of your tether because everyone else is pulling their weight and all you're doin' is hiding with your tail tucked between your legs."

"No, you're right.  I'm not.  But I _am_ the one Angel said for you to bring along to Heaven."

All movement in his body stopped, and before her very eyes, Spike became a stone statue, eyes hard and distant as he looked down at her.  "Don't know what you're talkin' about, luv," he said, his words brittle.

"Don't lie to me!"  That question of how she felt about his actions?  Settled.  Angry won by two lengths.  "I saw the note, Spike!  And that friend of yours…Gino?  He made it pretty clear what you were going to do.  Don't make this worse by pretending not to know what it's all about."

"Then why ask?  You have such a handle on it…why play out your little Gloria Swanson melodrama in following me out?  You should've just laid your cards out on the table when you came in---."

"Like you were all Mr. Upfront and Responsible?"  She shook her head.  His gall was mindboggling.  "I thought we had everything out in the open between us.  I thought…I thought we were _better_ than this.  You want me to love you, and to trust you, and to _believe _in you, but…how can I do that when you don't believe in _us_?"

Her accusation pricked his wall of defiance and visibly deflated Spike's shoulders, his head sagging as he tore his eyes away from hers.  "You don't understand," he mumbled.  "I can't lose you, too."

"You should've thought of that before you lied to me."

His gaze came up at that, blindingly blue and aching and almost shiny enough to make her wonder if he was going to cry.  "You don't get it, do you?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question he was expecting an answer to.  "I don't show up, and Dru dies.  Dru dies, and this entire city will be in chaos because there's no fucking way old man Conti is goin' to sit back on that.  He's not the Master of New York for nothin', Buffy, and she's pretty much all he's got.  The game we've got staged in there…"  He gesticulated toward the hotel suite behind her.  "..will be over before it even begins, because there's no way in hell he's goin' to let me walk out of this city alive if I let Dru die."

"That doesn't explain why you didn't tell me about it.  Or why you're hiding the truth from all those people in that room back there who are doing everything in their power to save your skin, Spike.  They can help.  They _want _to help.  Well, maybe not Lindsey, but the others, definitely."

"Because that's not the way Wilkins wants to play it," he replied.  "Somehow, he's sussed on to the fact that there's something between you and me, and he's none too pleased to find out there's another rooster in his henhouse.  This is all about power, pet.  And if I show up with you in tow, I might as well sign over all of mine."

"I'm not some trophy the two of you can just…_wrestle_ for," she protested.

"Tell that to your beloved ex.  He's the one who built that pedestal you were perched on when we met."

It felt like all the air had been sucked from her lungs.  "Is that…really how you think of me?" she asked, hoarse.

"Bugger," he muttered, and before she knew it, he'd swept forward, pulling her against him before she could respond otherwise, clutching her to his chest so tightly she could feel his heart pounding beneath his skin.  "We've had this conversation before, Buffy," he murmured, his face buried in her hair.  "But I'll keep sayin' it for as long as it takes for you to believe it."  He pulled away just far enough to look down at her, his hands sliding up to cup her face, palms warm and soothing and vibrating just enough to convey his own nerves.

"I love you.  _You_.  Not some songbird on a stage, or some make-believe woman I've built up in my head.  You.  But me and love…"  His head dropped, forehead resting on forehead, and her eyes fluttered closed as she drank in the heady scent of his skin.  "…it's not something I can do halfway.  I'll fight, and I'll scrap, and I'll promise the world to do what it takes to make someone I love happy.  So you can't expect me to just sit back and take what he's dishin' without puttin' up some kind of a fight.  This is all about gettin' to me, and damned if I'm goin' to let him take down everyone I give a fig about by dragging them into this mess."

She almost didn't want to ask, but the words escaped before she could net them back in.  "You're going to kill him, aren't you?"

His lips met hers then, soft and sweet and gentle without demanding anything in response.  "I'm goin' to do what it takes to stop him," Spike finally said when he broke away.  "I owe that to Dru."

When he stepped from her for the second time in so few minutes, Buffy's arms came up to huddle around her body, hugging herself tight as he stole her warmth with every foot that led him further and further away.  "What happened to your keeping your word?" she called after him, and hated the sound of her voice.

Spike paused, and then glanced back at her over his shoulder.  "Made a promise to a lady," he said.  "Not about to break it now."

It wasn't until he'd disappeared around the corner of the hall that it occurred to Buffy that she wasn't entirely sure which lady he might be referring to.

*************

Dark hair spilled over her pale cheek, lashes like ebony webs clinging to her skin as she slept.  Pretty, Angel thought dispassionately as he looked down at Drusilla.  But nowhere near as vital or beautiful as his Buffy.  Where the Conti princess wore the work of her family like a death shroud, somehow even after all this time, Buffy still deflected any hint of the murder and mayhem that surrounded her, pulsing and beaming with a life that made him want to just stand back and bask.  He was a better man for just having known her; of that, Angel was certain.

He couldn't fault Rook for his taste, though.  Or his unerring accuracy in knowing just how to make it hurt the most.  

Was she sleeping with the bastard? he wondered.  He couldn't even use the word "fucking" in conjunction with her when it was someone other than himself; it belittled her and everything she stood for.  He wanted to believe not, but he knew about Rook's history, about what he was.  The man was a wildcat, running free through the streets of the city, with the sly charm and elegant grace that attracted the most vulnerable of prey.  A few choice words, and Angel wasn't sure that Buffy wouldn't fall for the act, tumbling into his bed with an ease that made Wilkins want to heave.

Abruptly, he rose from his chair, heedless of it falling behind him, and began stalking the perimeter of Heaven's dance floor.  The club was empty, closed on the pretext of his father's funeral, leaving him to entertain Drusilla until the sleeping powders he'd put in her wine had taken effect.  He had every intent to fill his end of the bargain if Rook showed up---_when_ he showed up---so he'd merely played the role of attentive suitor during the day, lying in wait until sunset when the two blonds would arrive.  Oh, he was prepared to plug her if it came to it, but from what he suspected about Rook, this was a threat he wouldn't be able to walk away from.  Surely the life of his all-consuming love was worth more than a dalliance designed merely to provoke Angel?  It was a risk he'd been willing to make, and one he was convinced would pay off.

All he had to do now was wait.

*************

Her body arched against his as she stretched, muscles singing in pleasant release, a surprised smile curving her lips.  That had been…unexpected, Faith thought, as she began to push the heavy blankets away from her recumbent form.

Wood growled at her shoulder, large hands reaching out to grab her waist.  "And where do you think you're going?" he asked as he pulled her back into the sanctuary of the pillows, naked flesh pressed to naked flesh.

Faith laughed, slapping at his grip.  "Hey, down there, big boy.  A dame's got to take care of her needs, you know."

He pressed his rising erection into the cleft of her ass, hands sliding up to cup the fullness of her breast.  "I thought that's what we were doing."

"There's more to life than just sex."  She shook her head, glancing down at him as she extracted herself from his arms.  "And trust me, I'm well aware of how ridiculous that sounds coming from me."

His eyes were hooded as he watched her grab her clothes from where they'd been tossed haphazardly to the floor, sliding into them with a practiced ease.  "I have to say, I'm surprised we haven't been interrupted.  I was fairly certain that you were here to distract me from something."

She didn't let his words register in her movements, continuing her dressing as if they held no import.  "And you fucked me anyway?  Someone likes to live dangerously."

"What's the point of being in charge if I'm not allowed to have fun when I want?"

"Fun?"  It was more brittle than she liked, and she softened it with a smile.  "Glad I could oblige then."

She was halfway to the door, doing up the button her skirt, when he spoke again.

"So…should I be suitably warned now?" Wood asked.  Faith looked back to see him leaning against the dark headboard, all chocolate and bulky muscle that sent tingles down her thighs.  "Is this your way of telling me you're dangerous?"

There was no hesitation in her reply.  "That's for me to know, and you to find out, tiger."

The hallway was empty when she slipped out of the bedroom, and Faith kept her leisurely pace as she headed for her destination.  Why Trick hadn't interrupted with something work-related, she had no idea, but she wasn't going to question her good fortune right now.  She didn't have time for that, not after having spent most of the afternoon in the sack with Wood.

Getting him there hadn't been nearly as hard as she'd thought it would be.  Some footsie at lunch, some small talk about what a bastard Angel was, and he'd been tripping over his tongue to get at her.

What had been unanticipated was how much she'd enjoy being there, once she was in bed with him.  Sure, Richard had been attentive, but she'd loved him for more than what he did behind closed doors.  And Angel's attentions didn't count.  

Wood had been…almost reverent in his treatment of her, power caged within every stroke of her skin, unleashed at the most unexpected moments to ravage her in pleasure.  She'd forgotten how much _fun_ sex could be.

She almost felt guilty when she picked up the phone she'd spied in the small study earlier that day.  Fingering the scrap of paper that had been tucked into the pocket of her skirt, her gaze remained locked on the closed door that led to the rest of the house, waiting until the ringing stopped on the other end of the line.  "Hey," Faith said, when it was answered.  "It's me."

To be continued in Chapter 41: In the Kingdom of the Blind, the Man with One Eye is King…


	41. In the Kingdom of the Blind

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Faith has gone to Wood's, and Buffy has learned of what Angel has done, confronting Spike about it only to be left behind when he goes to Heaven alone…

*************

"You all right?" Xander asked as soon as Buffy stepped back into the hotel suite.

He was standing directly inside the door, as if he'd been waiting for one or the both of them to come back in, and she felt her throat tighten as her gaze flickered around the room.

Jenny looking sympathetically back at her from the couch.

Lindsey, with his nose buried in the files, not even aware that she'd come back into the suite.

Wesley, on the phone, his voice low as he spoke with whoever was on the other end of the line.

Gone were Giles and Willow, though Giles' absence was only temporary as they waited for him to return from Lilah Morgan's hotel.  Their absences didn't change the fact of their devotion, though.  

These were Spike's friends, his comrades-in-arms.  These were the people who were laying their lives, and their careers, and their futures, down in order to help him.  In spite of how incongruous it seemed, they _cared_, and in that single moment, Buffy's mind was made up.

Spike was wrong.

"There's been a change of plans," she announced as she stepped further into the room.  

Her words made Wesley's head snap up, staring at her intently behind his spectacles.  "Hang on," he said into the receiver, and then asked Buffy, "What did Spike say?"

"We're moving everything up to tonight."  Her mouth was firm, the shaking gone from her limbs.  He was going to be pissed, but she'd just deal with Spike's feelings after this was all over.  Better to help him than to see him get killed.  "Please tell me that that's Faith on the phone."

"Yes.  Why?"

"Because it saves us trying to figure out how to tell her to get Wood to Heaven tonight."  She turned to Jenny.  "Can you get the feds there on such short notice?"

"Well, yes, but---."

"Which just leaves coordinating the rest of us."  She couldn't let anyone else break her train of thought.  She was right about this; she knew it.  And whether Spike liked it or not, he wasn't taking Angel on alone.  Not while there was a breath left in her body to help him fight.

*************

He was silent as the Desoto wove its way through traffic, Mickey at his side while Clem and Gino followed along in the car behind him.  Every time he glanced into his rearview mirror, he half-expected to see Buffy's smiling face shining back at him from the backseat, but every time he did so, it only caused the acid in his stomach to churn all that much harder.

She shouldn't have found out.  This would all be so much simpler if she hadn't known about Angel's threat.

Gino and Clem had been appropriately apologetic when he'd confronted them at the bar they'd agreed to meet at.  "I told you before, that dame is scary," Clem had argued.  "Plus…packing?  No way am I going to be the one to say no to her."

"You could've bloody _lied_," Spike had argued.

Clem rolled his eyes.  "Oh, because I'm _so_ good at that.  The jig was up the second she saw me."  He'd smacked Gino's arm at his side.  "Why didn't you talk me out of buying the skin cream?"

"Don't be putting the finger of blame on me," Gino declared, and downed the shot of whiskey in his hand in a single gulp.  

"No, you're just the one who showed her the soddin' note," Spike had growled.  Narrowed eyes glared at Mickey.  "And where were you during this whole mess, Curly?"

"Waiting for them back in the car," came the reply.

Which was the only reason Spike let him ride along after they left the bar.  Mickey was the only one of the Stooges he wasn't thoroughly brassed off with at the moment.

"I think that's the only shade of green it turns," the man in question now said quietly.

Snapping from his reverie, Spike flipped off the driver who passed him honking, and pressed the accelerator to continue through the intersection at which he'd been stopped.  "Thanks," he muttered, and then risked stealing a glance at him.  "You're bein' awful quiet.  Fingered you for a talker."

"Funny.  I fingered you the same way."

Long pause as the exchange digested.  Then… "She thinks I'm goin' to kill him."

"Aren't you?"

Spike shrugged.  "Figured I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.  More concerned in hurtin' the wanker at the moment than anything else.  Killing would be too quick."

"Did you tell that to Buffy?  She's hardly a dumb dame.  I'm sure she'd understand."

He didn't reply.  He _had_ told her, if not in so many words…hadn't he?  But still, she had to know that he couldn't just let Wilkins get away with it.  All the reasons he'd given her…each and every one of them was valid, but the biggest one of them all was the one he hadn't voiced.

He wanted to make the bastard burn for hurting Buffy like he had.

"I mean," Mickey was saying, "I completely savvy why you're not taking her along.  She shows up, and you lose your bargaining chip.  But, y'know, maybe she wouldn't have been so rough with it if you'd been straight about the whole situation before she called you on it.  Easiest way to piss her off is not be on the square with her.  You _got_ to have figured _that_ out by now."

He had.  Before his brain had short-circuited in scarlet fury at Angel's little stunt.

"Me and Buffy…we're still…sorting this whole thing between us out---."  Mickey's snort of derision more effectively cut him off than anything the other man could've said, and he turned a thunderous gaze to look at him.  "What?" he demanded.  

"Nothing.  None of my business."  Pause.  "OK, that's not true.  Buffy's been my business for way too long to just let this go."

"So?  Spill it."

It took even longer for him to decide how exactly to say what he was so obviously itching to say, but when it came, it came without any lingering traces of hesitancy  "You're full of shit, Spike, if you think for a second you can play Buffy like any other skirt out there.  She's a lot stronger than you're givin' her credit for---."

"You don't think I know that?"

Mickey held up his hand.  "Let me finish here, all right?"  He waited, watching as Spike's knuckles went even whiter around the steering wheel, until a curt nod from the driver bade him continue.  "Like I said, she's a helluva lot stronger than you think, but turning that around, she's not as put together as all that either.  She's taken a lot of knocks, and she hides it well, but each and every one of them is still there, waiting to bleed.  The thing is, she expects them to, or she did, until you came into the picture.  Don't be making her wish she hadn't started hoping.  She deserves better than that."

The only sound in the car was the music of the distant honks and whistles from the traffic outside, and Spike stared at the road ahead of him, seeing not the concrete and steel rising from the ground, but the darkened interior of a not-forgotten hotel room and the silhouetted body beneath him as she begged him to make her feel beautiful.  Regret washed over him, flushing his cheeks as the plaintive ache of her remembered voice made the compulsion to swerve the wheel around to head back to Wesley's suite tremored throughout his body.

_God, Buffy._  _What've I done to you?_

The clarity of a red light spurred him to glance again at his companion.  "What is it you suggest then?" he asked, his voice low and expressionless.

Mickey's tone was gentle.  "You said you had a plan to take 'em all down tomorrow?"

"Wasn't _my_ plan, but yeah, it's there.  They sent Faith off first thing this morning to tether Wood, Wes got the feds lined up, and Buffy was goin' to help us corner Wilkins."

"So…I say you stick with it.  Consider getting Drusilla Conti outta that club the pre-show and leave Wilkins for the big game tomorrow.  Isn't getting her safe the point of going there in the first place?"

He hated it when everyone else had the right point and he didn't.  Keeping his tone as neutral as possible, Spike said, "Easier said than done, mate."

"But possible."

"Anything's possible."

"So do it."

Fuck.  There was no way he was going to win this one.  Not with Buffy's ghost haunting his every thought, and not with Buffy's friend hovering at his side with words he couldn't logically argue with.  Could always go the _illogical_ route with him, he mused, but quickly dismissed it as childish and time-wasting.  Too many people had already been hurt---and fuck if the picture of a bleeding Willow didn't rise up to slap him in the face, too---and he couldn't afford not to be smart about this anymore.

"Tell me you got an idea how to do it," he finally said as he eased through the green light.

*************

"On the scale of one to ten for bright ideas," Kate said, crumpling up the sandwich wrapper and stuffing it into the grease-stained sack, "this rates about a minus two."

"Aw, c'mon, it got us out of the office all day," Riley said.  Through the windshield, he watched the house across the street intently, though he shot her an apologetic smile as he spoke.

"Yeah, out of the office and stuck in your smelly car for hours on end.  Without a bathroom, eating the most god-awful---."

"Mario's is not god-awful.  And it didn't stop you from eating the whole thing, even if it is."

"Like I had a ch---."

"Sshhh!"  His hand shot up, quieting her even as it obscured her view, and Kate grimaced as she reached up and shoved it down.

People were finally emerging from Wood's house, a string of suited men fidgeting with unseen weapons as they climbed into the row of cars along the curb, but it was the woman who followed after them, hanging on the arm of Wood himself, that made Kate sit up and take notice.

"When did she get here?" she said breathlessly.

"Obviously, before we did," Riley replied.  His eyes glittered in excitement, and he was barely able to suppress his smile of delight.  "You think she came here straight from the hotel yesterday?"

Kate frowned.  "Maybe.  But weren't those Wood's men that got shot?  If Faith was in on the whole thing, why would she have been hanging out with McDonald?"

"Don't know.  Don't care."  Riley's hand dropped to the ignition when the last of the group had disappeared into the waiting vehicles.  "I hope you didn't want to be stretching your legs any time soon.  I'm planning on going for a little ride."

As the unmarked car eased into the traffic, several lengths back so as to avoid detection, she adjusted the seatbelt that had long been undone.  "Should we stop and call for back-up?"

"We don't know where they're going yet.  We could just be following the dinner rush."

"At least we'll get a decent meal if that's the case.  One without grease stains, preferably."

"Very funny, Lockley."

*************

"I'm just saying, Willow is going to be very upset we didn't fill her in on the details prior to executing this plan---."

"Which is exactly why we shouldn't tell her.  She needs to concentrate on recuperating, not worrying about whether we'll succeed or not."

"You haven't known her as long as I have, Wesley.  I'm telling you, she's not going to be happy."

Each uttered syllable was making it increasingly difficult for Buffy to tune out the bickering between Giles and Wesley, and she bent her head to more meticulously clean her gun in an attempt to block their words.  So, when Xander's shadow fell across her lap, she was grateful for the distraction, smiling up at him as he settled onto the couch beside her.

"Listening to Tweedledum and Tweedledee back there is making me wish I was laid up like Willow," he joked.  He nodded at her weapon.  "You need any more ammo for that peashooter?  We've got quite the stash, you know."

"No, I'm set."

There was a moment of silence---well, between them anyway, Giles and Wesley were still going at it---and then Xander cleared his throat.  "Listen, I know it's not my place, but…you sure about this little scenario?  I mean, not that I'm not all hot and bothered to take a poke at the guys who set Spike up, but…are you sure this is the best idea?"

Her eyes were clear as she looked at him.  "Positive.  And besides, it's a little late to be backing out from it now.  Faith's probably already left with Wood."

"Right, right.  It's just…now, don't get me wrong here.  I think you're swell, and I haven't seen Spike this happy in…well…_ever_, but if he wanted us storming into Heaven with all barrels blazing, shouldn't he have said something to us himself?"

"Do you think I'm lying about this?" Buffy asked.  Her hands tightened instinctively around the weapon in her lap.  "I love Spike.  The last thing I want in this world is to do anything that will jeopardize him."

Xander held up his palms in a truce gesture.  "No, no, that's not what I'm saying here.  It's just…you gotta trust him, Buffy.  He's been in the business too long to do something stupid.  Not that he hasn't on the rare occasion, but that's usually the result of a few too many shots or those Barbara Stanwyck weepies he swears he's not addicted to.  You should've seen him after Stella Dallas came out.  We were cleaning up the mess from that for weeks."

"This is the right thing to do," she reiterated.  "I know it is."

He only nodded, brown eyes kind.  "That's not what Spike said, though, is it."  Not a question, more of a statement of admission.  Because it was obvious he could see through the front Buffy had been braving since re-entering the hotel suite.

"It doesn't matter.  We _have_ to do this, Xander.  If Angel's serious about this, he's not going to be all on his own.  He's going to have men waiting for Spike to show, and he's going to hurt him.  He killed his own _father_.  Do you really think he'd hesitate to take down the man he hired to do it?"  Her words came faster, her need to convince him overwhelming.  "Spike can hate me all he wants when everything's said and done.  I don't care.  But he's too angry right now to be thinking this through, and I'm not just going to stand back and let him destroy himself like this.  One against _a lot_ are not the greatest of odds, and damned if I'm not going to help him even those out any way I can."

Covering her hand with his, Xander patted it gently.  "You're lying, you know," he said.  "You _do_ care.  But I get what you're saying.  Just do me a favor, OK?  When we walk away from all this…when you and Spike get your riding into the sunset moment, just remember what I said about trust.  You have no idea yet just how important that is to him.  He's been to hell and back, Buffy.  He's seen the worst, and he's done the worst, but he's not that man anymore.  He needs you to have faith in who he actually is now.  It's the only way you two stand a shot at working."

They both jumped when Giles called out Xander's name, and the young man rose from his seat with a smile to leave her sitting alone.  She wasn't wavering in her decision, but his words were prompting all sorts of questions and feelings about her future with Spike to course through her veins.  She had a lot to learn about Spike and his friends; she just hoped that he would be willing to give her a chance to do it after she showed up at Heaven tonight.

*************

"This assignment's bullshit."  The heavyset man leaned against the wall of the club, staring up into the streetlamps that were just beginning to flicker into life.  "Rook ain't goin' to show his mug around here.  He's too smart for that."

"Angel said he's goin' to show, so he's goin' to show," his partner in gray said.  "Just be glad he's not hearing you spout off at the mouth.  You'd end up with cement shoes.  He's not as nice as the old man was."

"I miss the Mayor," Heavy said wistfully.  "Them's was the good old days."

"Them's was just last week."

"Doesn't mean I can't miss 'em."  He straightened when two lurching forms appeared from nowhere around the corner, a giant of a man being held up by another, both of them singing loud and offkey.  He grimaced when the smaller of the men stumbled against him, knocking his gun to the ground.  "Hey!  Watch where you're going there!"

"Sorry, sorry."  Both of them bent at the same time to retrieve the weapon, their heads knocking together with an audible pop, but when they tried to straighten, the smaller man jammed the back of his head into Heavy's jaw, snapping his neck backwards.

"Watch it there," Gray warned, pulling out his own weapon.  "Why don't you two just move it along?"

The giant stepped forward then, and leaned into Gray's face, the fumes of alcohol that surrounded him almost palpable in the air.  "Why don't you _make_ us?" he said, poking a meaty finger into Gray's chest.

"Yeah, Gino," the smaller man said.  "You tell him."

"Don't make me use this," Gray said, pressing the muzzle of his gun into the giant's---Gino's---abdomen.

"What?  This?"  And before he could react, Gino had twisted the revolver from his grip, hanging it high over his head by the trigger, before laughing and tossing it into the street.  "Little boys shouldn't play with big boy toys," he taunted, and then pulled out his own gun from inside his jacket.

"Fuck," Heavy muttered.  Inching back toward the club, his fist snaked behind him and began pounding on the club's front door.

*************

Sunset.  Time for Rook to show his face.

The sound of Angel's footsteps echoed through the silence of the club, his heels too loud against the dance floor as he added circuit upon circuit onto his total.  Any minute now, his men would haul Rook and Buffy inside.  They'd do the exchange, he'd send Buffy home, and then Angel would shoot the bastard in the back before he could leave Heaven.  It was a good plan.  It was a plan that made him want to roar with pleasure.  It was a plan that---.

A furious pounding from the front of the club snagged his attention.

Fuck.

It was a plan that was going to get screwed up before it even got started because he hired imbeciles to do his dirty work.

Decisively, Angel whirled on his heel and marched into the lobby, heading straight for the front doors.  One of these days, he was just going to have clear out the entire stable of men left over from his father's time.  They were just too unreliable.

*************

Spike ignored the unconscious bodies on the ground as he watched Clem appear around the corner of the club.  "Well?" he demanded, his hand already on the back door's knob, ready to let himself in once he had the word.

"Angel just came out to see what Mickey and Gino are doing," Clem panted.  "You only got a couple minutes."

"Only need a couple minutes," Spike muttered, and pushed his way inside.

He didn't wait for his eyes to adjust before ploughing through the darkness.  Find Dru, get her out, and get the hell back to Buffy.  That was the plan.  Taking out the men who'd guarded the back entrance had been simple, but he had a feeling that finding his ex in the miasma of the backstage area of Heaven wasn't going to be.  And there were likely more men inside.  He had to be careful.

Sneaking a peek through the curtains, Spike had to blink more than once to adjust to the artificial lightness that flooded the dance floor.  The space was empty, the doors that led to the lobby thrown wide open in Angel's haste to see what the hell was going on outside.  He was just grateful the diversion had worked.  A quick scan of the interior, though, quickly revealed that the room wasn't quite as bare as he'd though, for there, head down on a corner table with an open bottle of wine in front of her, was a sleeping Drusilla.

He skirted around to the other side of the stage, only daring to come through the curtains when he was as close to her as he could manage.  Spike stiffened when she moaned in her sleep, but quickly resumed his task, scooping her gently into his arms before turning back to the heavy velvet blocking his path.  Her long hair fell over her shoulders, trailing in ebony waves down his sleeve, and he swallowed as he allowed himself a cursory glance at her face.  

So pale, almost ghostly.  That flawless complexion wiped expressionless by whatever drugs Wilkins had slipped her.  She was still breathing, though, slowly and evenly, so as much as it bugged him to see her this way, Spike knew she'd be all right.  He just had to get her to the car.

"Not one for following directions, are you, boy?"

Angel's voice rang out through the room, but Spike refused to let his agitation in being caught show, turning slowly to see the larger man standing in the entrance, a gun nestled in his palm.  

_Sorry, Buffy.  Really did try to do this the right way.  Wanker's not givin' me much of a choice now._

To be continued in Chapter 42: Angels with Dirty Faces…


	42. Angels with Dirty Faces

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Spike decided to just get Drusilla out without confronting Angel, but his distraction failed to work and he is now cornered inside Heaven with a passed out Dru in his arms…

*************

Gino panted heavily as he came lumbering around the corner of the building, following the smaller Mickey into the alley.  Gripping the wall when he saw Clem run up, he bent over, gasping for breath.

"What happened?" Clem asked.

"Angel…pulled his…heater out," he managed.

"Yeah," Mickey said.  "We argued with him for as long as we thought it was safe, but then ran when things started getting ugly."  He frowned, scanning the otherwise empty alley.  "Where's Spike?"

Clem shook his head.  "Hasn't come out yet."

"That can't be good."

"We should go in after him," Gino said, straightening and trying to push his way past the smaller man.  He stopped, though, when Clem grabbed his arm.  Running just wasn't his strong suit; he didn't have the breath or the strength at the moment to argue with his friend.

"Spike said to wait.  We have no idea how many of Angel's men are in there, so as long as we don't hear any gunshots, we gotta assume Spike's OK."

"Unless Angel's got a knife," Gino muttered.

"Spike can take care of himself."  He turned to Mickey.  "Go get the car and bring it around.  I'll get mine.  We'll both be ready just in case---."

"_When_," Gino interrupted.  "You mean _when_."

"---_when_ Spike comes out with Drusilla."

As he watched, Mickey nodded, and both men took off at a lope to coordinate the vehicles.  Gino didn't like it, but that was the plan, and rather than more dead bodies get scattered around, he had to stick to it.  The least he could do, was make sure no more of Angel's men got inside through the back, and that the two who'd been on guard stayed unconscious.  Stepping up to the pair on the ground, he gave both of them vicious kicks to the back.

That's for Spike, he thought grimly, and turned to the door to wait.

*************

His eyes were cold as he watched Angel nudge the door closed behind him with his heel, leaving them staring at each other across the dance floor, the thirty feet or so separating them doing nothing to diminish their mutual enmity.  "Got quite the superiority complex there, haven't we?" Spike commented.  "'Specially, as you and me are both of the same age or so.  Y'know, the last bloke to call me '_boy_' got his tongue ripped out for the pleasure.  You must be gunning to follow in his footsteps."

"Where's Buffy?"

A chuckle.  "So we're cutting right to the chase.  Right.  Well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm not up to sharin' that spot of information just yet.  Not 'til I get Dru out of here."

"That wasn't the arrangement, Rook."  Slowly, Angel began sliding along the length of the wall, attempting to narrow the gap between them, but for every step forward he made, Spike took one back, keeping them ever equidistant.

"Looks to me you buggered up the arrangement the second you pulled your little peashooter on me."  He deliberately looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms, making it clear with that one motion that he wasn't fearful enough not to look away from Angel.  "_And_ when you put the lights out on Dru.  All bets are off, mate."

The sound of the gun being cocked echoed against the walls.  "I could just kill you where you stand and say to hell with it."

Spike's eyes flared.  "Do it, and you'll never know where Buffy is."

Angel laughed.  "Doesn't matter.  She'll come back.  She always does.  The dame doesn't know how to stay away from me."

"And here I thought _I_ was the irresistible force.  Thanks ever so for setting me straight."

"I'm only going to ask you one more time.  Where's Buffy?"

"Piss off."

The gun shifted in the space of a blink, its furious retort making Spike's ears ring while the bullet's impact caused him to lurch to one side.  His head whipped around to see the blood dripping from Drusilla's ankle, her foot dangling at an awkward angle.  The bone was most likely shattered, his mind raced, and his lips automatically curled into a snarl as the first droplets of her blood fell to the smooth floor.

"It could've been you," Angel said.  There was no change in his voice, no indication that he was in the slightest bit perturbed by what he'd just done.  He took a step toward the center of the room, but this time, Spike remained where he stood.

"Old Man Conti's goin' to make you pay for that," Spike growled, hugging Drusilla closer to him and silently condemning himself for playing the odds that the wanker was bluffing about the gun.  "Right after I've had my say about the matter."

"Conti's going to crumple as soon as he tries," Angel countered.  "_I'm_ the one in charge of this town, and it's not going to take very much until the rest of the world knows it."

"Wood might think otherwise."

"Wood's small potatoes."  He paused, the beginning of a crease forming in his heavy brow.  "You glommed on to Wood, huh?  I wondered how long it would take you to figure out he was the one who wanted you behind bars."

"Didn't have to figure it out."  Spike waited, knowing his not telling would eat at the other man, and risked glancing at Dru's foot again.  It was hardly a fatal wound, but she was still losing blood.  The sooner he got her sorted, the happier he was going to be.  "A little birdy told it to me."

Like the most predictable arrow, Angel leapt straight to the conclusion Spike had hoped he would.  "How did Buffy find out?" he asked.  A sense of urgency was creeping into his voice, the muzzle of the gun moving almost imperceptibly away from the target it was trained on.

"Then there's the whole matter of feds poking their noses in where they don't belong," he continued, ignoring the question.  He had to restrain from laughing when Angel visibly paled.  "Not that I'd expect them to really put their finger on anything, but kind of puts a damper on goin' whole hog on a turf war when you've got hammer and saws lookin' over your shoulder."

"You're bluffing."  
"Am I?"

"No way would you tangle the feds into this.  They're just as hot for you as they would be for me."

"Nobody said I was the one who called 'em in."  No point in not playing it straight here; if he stayed alive long enough to walk out the doors and get around to the plan the next day, it would be moot anyway.  And if not…well, he wasn't going to consider that as an option at the moment.  "Here I thought you would've noticed one of your nearest and dearest playing hooky from all the funeral festivities."

"But…Buffy's not a fed."

Rolling his eyes at the blind confusion in Angel's face, Spike shook his head.  "Not Buffy, you berk.  Wesley."

"Now I know you're lying.  Wesley's one of the most faithful employees this family has ever had---."

"Which is why he was a no-show for the Mayor's going away party, right?"

The longest of pauses accompanied Angel's narrow-eyed search of Spike's face, culminating in a visible crumpling as connections inside his head clicked into place.  "Wesley a fed," he murmured, shaking his head.  "Fuck…"  It was then that he looked away, his newfound knowledge distracting him from the game at hand.

It was the opportunity Spike had been looking for.  As he'd spoken, he'd shifted his hold on Dru so that when his window came, all he had to do was drop her across the table at his side.  He bent low and made a mad dash toward Angel's legs, hoping against hope that the chance he'd been given wouldn't be wasted by any lack of speed.

One shot rang out when Angel realized what he was doing, and Spike felt shards from where it hit the floor fly up and embed in his cheek.  It didn't stop him, though, and a fraction of a second later, his arms were wrapped around the other man's knees, tackling him to the ground so that the pair rolled toward the stage.

The hard cylinder of the gun's muzzle pressed its length against Spike's thigh, cold even through his trousers, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on sinking his teeth into the upper arm that held it.  Angel screamed out in pain, his other fist rising to strike the side of the blond's head, but the blow glanced off with only the mildest of stars springing behind Spike's eyes.

Twisting his torso, he transferred his weight so that he was able to slide his leg between Angel's, and angled his knee to more properly align with its target.  When it went flying upward, he heard the satisfying exhalation of air as Angel's eyes bugged, his mouth open in a silent scream, crumpling and falling away from the tussle with both his hands cupped around his crotch.

Slowly, Spike stood up, his hand reaching to touch the blood that starting to drip down his cheek.  He rubbed it between his fingers before lifting them to his mouth, his tongue darting out to sample the coppery tang.  It stung like a bitch, but he didn't have time to worry about it just then.  Maybe he'd get Buffy to play Florence Nightingale when he got back to the hotel, pull out the pieces before they got infected.  Maybe coming back wounded would earn him the sympathy vote and she wouldn't be too mad at the whole debacle.  Lots of maybes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angel begin to reach for the gun and kicked it out of his path, hearing it skitter to a stop against the far wall.  "Don't think so," he said coldly.

"You just fucked yourself, Rook," Angel growled.  "You should've shot me while you could."

"What?  You mean I can't do that with this?"  Casually, he pulled his own gun from his jacket and held it up.  "You really think I'd walk into a set-up like this without my own piece, you pillock?"  He looked at it for a long moment, and then slid it back inside.  "But you're not dyin' on my watch.  Not tonight.  Made a promise and plan to stick to it."  He turned back to where Drusilla still rested on the table.  "'Sides, once tomorrow's come and gone, it will all be---."

His scream of pain was garbled as the blade buried itself into the back of his thigh, and Spike collapsed to the floor.  Lesson the first, he heard inside his head.  Never, _ever_, turn your back on the enemy.

Fuckin' fool.  That's what he was.

Clutching his leg, feeling the blood seep into his trousers and begin dripping through his fingers, he glanced back to where Angel was on his hands and knees, struggling to get to his feet.  Rage boiled beneath his skin.  _Fuck what I said.  Self-defense, that's what it'll be.  Buffy would understand if it was self-defense._

And as he began to reach for his gun, all the lights in Heaven winked out, leaving them in utter blackness.

*************

Xander was the first to notice the darkness outside the suite window.  "We should probably be going here pretty soon," he said to Giles as he tucked away the last of the weapons into the bag.  "If we don't, Wesley's bound to beat us there with his fed crew in tow."

"Yes," Giles agreed.  Hefting the duffel over his shoulder, he began walking toward the door.  "Spike's going to need all the back-up he can get.  We can't afford---."  He stopped, frowning as he looked back at the empty hotel room.

"What is it?" Xander asked just behind him.

"When exactly did Buffy leave?"

*************

For a long moment after she killed the power, Buffy stood stock still, drowning in the darkness as her eyes adjusted to the gloom.  OK, maybe not her brightest idea, she thought as she strained to hear anything from the front of the club.  But she had reacted instinctively, Spike's scream piercing through her, and had thrown the switches that had been by her side without even thinking.  If they couldn't see each other, she rationalized, they couldn't hurt each other.  And at the moment, the only thing she was interested in was keeping both of them alive.

It had been the first gunshot that had finally allowed her to get past Gino's guard at the back door.  They had been arguing, his arms folded across his chest as he stood his ground and refused her entrance.  "Go ahead and shoot me," he'd dared, his bulky body acting effectively as a second door that she knew she could never physically move on her own.

She'd been about to try the front entrance again when the shot rang, diverting his attention enough for him to turn and look at the club.  Darting past him, she'd pushed open the back door and been immediately confronted with the distant murmurs of Spike and Angel's voices.  Neither sounded in pain, and she had hung back, afraid of interrupting and getting one of them killed.

"Give him a sec," Gino had whispered from where he'd mysteriously appeared behind her.

And the second had segued into several, and then erupted into the obvious explosion of a fight, another gunshot intermingling with the unseen grunts and scuffles.  Gino had been the one to push past then, his hand going to his weapon, only to stop when Spike's voice came through, louder and clearer than it had the first time.

They were both alive, she'd exhaled silently, wondering why her body was refusing to cooperate with her.  She heard Spike's repeat of his promise to her, how he wasn't going to kill Angel, and hated herself for ever doubting him.  It was only when he cried out in pain that her muscles sprang back into action, and now here she was, wondering what in hell she should do next.

"What next?" Gino whispered, verbalizing her thoughts.

"Get outside," she replied, just as quiet.  "The others will be here soon and they need to know what's going on."

"What about you?"

Her feet were already moving.  She didn't need light to navigate the Heaven's backstage; she'd tread these boards often enough to do it in her sleep.  "I'm going to stall."

*************

In the heavy air of the dance floor, the only audible sounds were the rasp of Angel's breathing, and the soft squelch as Spike pulled the knife from his leg.  "Forget to pay your light bill?" Spike said through gritted teeth, grimacing in silence against the pain that tore into his hip.

"What the hell's going on here, Rook?"

"Don't ask me."  Carefully, he inched himself toward the stage he knew was only a few feet away, and exhaled at the exertion once he felt it pressing into his back.  "Probably your boys havin' a spot too much fun."

"_My_ boys know not to poke their mugs in here without my say-so."

Which actually left the notion that it was _his_ boys playing peekaboo with the lights foremost in Spike's head.  Maybe it was Clem or one of the guys trying to give Spike a hand, thinking darkness would allow him the cover to escape.  Except I'm not goin' anywhere without Dru, he thought, so it was a waste of an effort.  Well-meaning, he was sure, but still…a waste.

Two different sounds bombarded him at the same time.  From in front of him, he heard the scrape of fabric against the floor as Angel struggled to rise to his feet.  Probably going for the doors, he reasoned.

But it was the other, the one that drifted to him from behind and to his right, that gave Spike pause.  The softest of steps, the whisper of a curtain being drawn, and then…hints of jasmine and clove tickled his nose.

He'd know that scent anywhere, and hope ignited within his breast.

_Buffy_.

For once, he was glad she had ignored his words and followed her own head.

Almost immediately, his hope dissolved into anxiety.  Bloody chit was going to get herself killed by showing up here.  No way was Wilkins going to be Mr. Forgiving once he realized the full extent of her defection, and if she did manage to fool him, it still left her under the delusion of his so-called worthiness.

Unless…

Spike's tongue tapped against his upper teeth as the plan formed.  She'd never forgive him for slandering her ex without definitive proof, but if the words came straight from the horse's mouth…

"You know you've buggered your chances with Buffy right good this time," he commented.  He shifted his weight, and felt the soft brush of fabric against his cheek as he settled more comfortably against the stage.  A tablecloth.  His hands curling around its hem, he gave it a short tug to affirm it wasn't the table he'd set Dru on, and then pulled it down with a clatter, sending the votives and ashtray in its center flying to the floor.  "Considering her parental issues, maybe you should've thought twice about offing your own pop."

"Shut up."

"I'm just sayin'…"  The tearing of the material was muffled by his voice as he ripped a strip from its length.  "…you really have to be barmy if you think this is the sort of thing she'd just overlook.  You can kiss that songbird goodbye 'cause there's not a chance in hell she's coming back here to roost."

"I said, shut up!"

Spike could still hear Angel moving around, and wondered how much closer he was to the door.  Quickening his efforts, he looped the strip he now held in his hands and tied it snugly around his leg.  Hopefully, it would stop the bleeding.  The last thing he needed when the lights finally came back up was to stand, slip in his own blood, and land on his ass with that wanker standing and laughing over him.

"You can't seriously think she's still goin' to marry you?" he said through his efforts. 

"Of course, she will," Angel spat.  There was a muffled curse and the bang of a chair falling to the floor, and Spike grinned at the image of the other man getting tangled with the furniture.  "I'm all she's got."

The matter-of-factness of his tone made Spike's blood run cold.  "Don't be so sure about that," he replied.

Angel laughed.  "You can't possibly be referring to yourself, now, can you?  Because I hate to break it to you, but you're not stepping out of this joint alive, Rook."

"That's still open to debate."

"Not really."  Another crash, and Spike began to wonder just what in hell Wilkins was doing over there.  "If I don't get you, my boys have orders to kill if you step one foot outside the door.  So, see?  I win.  I _always_ win.  And sooner or later, Buffy will get over her little infatuation and come crawling back to me.  Hell, she got over Hope and she was _married_ to him.  What makes you think you're any different?"

Now that was more like it.  Get him talking about the past.  "She's older now," Spike said.  "A bit more to the wise.  She'll see through whatever story you decide to weave about me."

"Fuck, you really have it bad for her, don't you?"  He could almost see Angel shaking his head.  "Face it, Rook.  She's just not the brightest bulb in the box.  She'll believe whatever I tell her to believe."

"Like what you wanted her to believe about her mum?"

It was a risk broaching it so directly, and he heard the sharp intake of breath from behind him as Buffy realized what he was doing.  It could all go to hell in a soddin' handbasket if Wilkins denied it, though.  Spike was just gambling that the prat's vanity would win.

The room was silent as the seconds ticked by.  "What did Buffy tell you about that?" Angel finally asked cautiously.

"Enough for me to recognize the work of a pro," he countered.  "Maybe she can't read between the lines, but I've spent my entire life doin' it.  Hard not to see your hand all over it all, playing God because it suits your fancy---."

"I _love_ Buffy!"  The force behind the three words was all Spike needed to know he'd hit a nerve.  "Everything I've ever done has been for her benefit!"

"Oh, because stripping her of her loved ones is just _so _humanitarian of you.  Right.  Remind me not to invite you to the next blood drive.  Something tells me you'd be nicking all the biscuits and tipping over the proverbial apple cart.  I wouldn't even be surprised if you pulled your own Drac attack---."

"You have no idea what you're talking about.  Nobody loves Buffy like I do.  I only wanted her to be happy."

"And funerals are such a good way to do that, I hear."

A furious growl.  "Hope talked her out of singing, didja know that?  You've heard her.  She's an angel up there onstage.  She was born for it.  And she's happiest when she's crooning her little heart out.  I wasn't about to stand back and let him turn her into some housefrau with half a dozen brats tugging at her skirt and wondering what if.  I gave her her life back."

"By taking his."

"Please.  Like I'm dumb enough to do it myself.  It was all set up to be an accident, just like I wanted.  Not even the police sniffed on to any foul play."  
Maybe he should've stopped there.  It was certainly enough for Buffy to lose her Angel delusions once and for all.  But Spike needed to know the truth about it all, needed her to have those blinders ripped off fully and completely.  And so he pressed on.

"Too bad that didn't work for the gallery trick.  You almost lost Buffy for good on that one."

Silence.  Too much silence.  Fuck.  He should've quit while he was ahead.

"You have no idea how much I wish I'd never let her go to work for my boys."  Angel's voice was low, almost a whisper, as if he were in confessional and Spike was his demonic priest.  "When they came and told me what she was doing, I should've put a stop to it right then and there.  Only good thing to come of it was cut all her ties to California and make it easier for me to talk her into coming back to the city with me."

Spike stayed mute, unsure as to how this was going to play out.  Angel sounded too contrite, and the last thing Spike wanted was to build up Buffy's sympathies for him even more.  As he tried to lift himself into a standing position, his hand slipped in a puddle of blood at his side, and he winced as another pain stabbed down his leg.

The other man was oblivious to the noises he was making.  "I hated seeing her in the hospital.  All pale and upset and crying every time the police tried to talk to her.  It wasn't supposed to play out like that.  You know, I killed the guy who sent her the note warning her.  If she'd never gotten it…"

The light tread behind him alerted Spike to Buffy's movement and he spoke up in an attempt to hide it from Angel.  "So you set up the fire," he guessed.

"No.  Just didn't…do anything about it when they said what they were doing.  I didn't think she'd get there before everything went up in flames, though.  She surprised the hell out of me on that one."

"She told me you saved her."

"Damn right I did!  Didja know, she was _actually_ trying to get her mum and sis free when I showed up?  Her fucking feet were on fire, and still, she just stood there and clawed at the ropes, crying and saying she was sorry and not even noticing that the building was coming down on top of her head.  She would've died with them if I hadn't shot her."

The last statement came as a kick to his gut.  The rest of the story had been expected---Spike had pretty much figured that out on his own---but to hear Angel had been the one to---.

He blinked when the stage floodlights came on, temporarily blinded as flashes of orange and yellow danced before his eyes.  Across the room, just a few feet from the doors to the lobby, Wilkins was sitting on the floor, leaning heavily against an overturned chair, a gash trickling down the side of his face.  His dark eyes were locked on something behind Spike, and slowly, the blond swiveled his head to look.

At the corner of the stage, a solemn Buffy stood with her hand on an auxiliary light panel on the wall, the curtain drawn back behind her to show how she'd come out.  "Hello, Angel," she said, her gaze fixed on her ex-fiance.

To be continued in Chapter 43: Back Door to Heaven…


	43. Back Door to Heaven

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Buffy has shown up at Heaven and overheard Angel's confession regarding the events that happened in California…

*************

Finding the switches for the lights on the stage had been simple; using them to illuminate the face of the man she thought she knew was not.

_Stall_, she had said.  But even as she'd crept closer to the front of the club, Buffy had been unsure as to what that might entail.  She had no idea how many men sat in darkness on the other side of the curtain, nor with whom their loyalties might lie.  So she had waited, hearing Spike just a few feet away as he goaded Angel into a confession she wasn't sure he had been expecting, either.  And when the wait grew interminable, hearing him utter those words that splintered the mirror she'd been holding up to her life and left her bleeding with the pieces, she had thrown the switches to see the spectacle created by the two men who claimed to love her best.

A scarlet trail dissected the dance floor, one end halting where Spike was propped up against the stage, a makeshift tourniquet bound around his thigh.  The other stopped several feet short of Angel's position at the other end of the room, his own share of wounds and blood staining his body and the floor.  Somewhere out of the corner of her eye she saw the unconscious form of Drusilla Conti sprawled across a tabletop, but it was of no consequence to her awareness, riveted as she was to the disbelief blinking back at her through Angel's eyes.

"Buffy…"  Reverent.  Incredulous.  A hint of a whisper on the air that boomed against all its occupants.

"No, please, don't let me interrupt."  The calm in her voice surprised even her.  How could she be containing herself so strongly on the outside when it felt like her insides were being shredded?  "This sounds like a very interesting conversation I've managed to step into."

The mask came back, that charming façade that had fooled her for so long.  "Aw, c'mon now, dollface," Angel said, a sly smile curving his lips as he shifted his weight to get to his feet.  "You can't seriously think---."

"That's just it, Angel.  I don't know _what_ to think."  The weight of her bag was heavy against her hip as she stepped sideways toward the stairs that led down to the main floor.  "And seeing as I'm not…what was it?"  She pretended to think for a moment before her features settled into crystallized animus.  "'The brightest bulb in the box?'  Maybe you should spell it out for me.  You know, in case there's some part of ruining my life I might have missed."

Her choice of words made his temper flare.  "I _saved_ you, Buffy.  From mediocrity.  From…a life of people who didn't give a fuck about whether or not you were happy.  Hell, I saved you from turning into a second-rate version of your mother---."

"Stop it!  Don't you _dare_ talk about my mom that way!"  Her fingers were curled around the clasp on her purse now, her foot frozen from descending the stairs as she stared at him in disbelief.  "Did you know that, in spite of my knowing that you were the one who hired Spike to kill your father, I _begged_ him not to kill you, too?  Because I thought I owed you something.  Because I thought…you deserved better than that.  God, I'm so stupid."

"Buffy, pet---."

She held up a warning hand to stop him from speaking.  "Stay out of this, Spike.  This isn't about you."

"Yeah, _Spike_…"  Angel's mouth sneered around the other man's name.  "…this isn't about you.  Except that's not entirely true, is it, doll?  Because we both know that we wouldn't be having this little convo right now if it wasn't for Rook's interference."

"All Spike has done is given me the opportunity to find out the truth."

"The truth is, I love you.  I thought you loved me, too."

"I do."  Buffy's voice almost cracked as she looked at him with shiny eyes.  "I just don't know who you are any more."

"We can work this out---."

"No, we can't.  You don't get to just say you're sorry, Angel.  Life doesn't work like that.  You took away everyone who was ever important to me, and then you lied about it and tried to come out the hero.  Well, guess what.  That grand future you were always so excited talking about?  Not going to happen."  Her hand was steady as it pulled the gun from her purse, and she leveled it at him.

He surprised her by laughing.  "You think you can actually pop me, Buffy?" he taunted.  Jerkily, he rose to his feet, his unbalance unsteady as he seemed to grimace at some unseen pain.  "You might be all about worshiping at the altar of Rook these days, but that's one trick you'll never master.  You're not a killer."

"I don't have to kill you.  I just have to slow you down until the feds get here."

His eyes narrowed, jumping between her and Spike like a rat caught in a trap.  "You two must have had plenty of laughs dreaming this little stunt up," he said.  "So what if Wesley's a fed?  He's worked for us for three years and he's never managed to get any dirt that might put us away.  Why in hell should that be any different now?"

"Now, don't be spilling all our trade secrets, luv," Spike cautioned before Buffy could speak.  "A little mystery does a body good."

Biting her tongue, she nodded, climbing down the stairs to stand level with the others.  Just because she was hurting didn't mean she could be risking the plan.  She just hoped that there weren't any more surprises in store; at the moment, she wasn't sure she was up to dealing with them.

*************

The tap at his window prompted him to roll it down and Riley gazed out at Kate's expectant face.  "Well?" he prompted.

"Wood, Faith, and half of Wood's men went down the alley beside Heaven," she said, breathless.  "The other half stayed out front with Wilkins' men that seemed to be guarding the door."

He glanced back at the building in his rearview mirror, watching the people in front mill around trying to look casual.  "Something big's going down," he said, his lips tight.  "I can feel it."

"Can we call for back-up now?"

"And tell them what?  'Hey, you know those big-time crooks we've never been able to nail?  They're having themselves a little party.'"  Riley shook his head.  "We can't move until something happens that warrants police action."

Kate rolled her eyes.  "It could be too late by then."

"And if we call them in and the Our Gang from Hell is just having dinner, I'll get pulled from the case and you'll get written up for being involved in an investigation," he warned.  "So, my answer is still no.  We do this by the book, or we don't do it at all."

She scowled as she went around the front of the car to the other side, pulling open the door and plopping into the seat with a heavy sigh.  "No wonder you don't date, Finn.  You have no idea on how to show a gal a fun time."

"Somehow, I never thought of putting the idea of fun anywhere near guns or stakeouts."  Casting her a curious glance out of the corner of his eye, his gaze quickly reverted back to the mirror and the entourage in front of Heaven.  "Keep up those kind of dares, Kate, and you're going to make me prove you wrong."

"As long as you're not wrong about something going down tonight," she replied.  "That's all I care about."

*************

"Tell me again why we should fucking _care_ what your orders were," Faith said, her arms folded across her breasts as she stared down Gino.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out at her.  Dame or not, he'd never really liked the Mayor's little trollop; only after what was going to get her ahead as far as he'd ever been able to tell.  Only Buffy's warning that she was going to show up, that she was on their side in spite of who she'd arrive with, kept him from saying something he would regret.

Before he could respond, Wood was reaching inside his coat and extracting a large leather billfold.  "I'm sure you can see to let me just slip inside," he said, tucking a folded bill into Gino's palm.  "You seem like a reasonable businessman."

He had to hold his mouth tight as he glanced down at his hand.  A c-note for what he was going to do in the first place?  Yep.  He was a businessman.  No way was he dumb enough to turn down a deal like that.

"Just you and the dame," he said, pocketing the money.  "There's only power players inside.  I've been told to keep out all the riffraff."  He looked pointedly at Faith, but she just lifted her chin in defiance.

"I don't see anything wrong with that," Wood said, and turned back to his men, murmuring instructions for them to wait.  It was the longest minute of Gino's life when he pushed open the door for them, his ears straining to hear what was going on inside.  All he got was silence.  Either Buffy and Rook had gotten the situation under control, or everyone was dead.

It would've been stupid to say that his vote was for the former.

*************

More than anything else, Spike was proud of her.

In spite of what she'd been confronted with, not once had Buffy shown weakness in front of that wanker of an ex of hers, and instead held firm to her pride, pulling out her piece in a show of power that Spike would've expected against anyone other than Angel.  She was obviously in pain---he could see that in those emerald depths, no matter how hard she tried to hide it---and while he regretted having to be the one to expose her to it, he couldn't help but feel just a little bit chuffed at himself for having been able to get Wilkins to spill the beans regarding California.  Even if the part about his being the one who shot Buffy in the back had come out of left field.

The pain in his own leg was ebbing, the blood flow stopped enough to allow him to stand up on it without gimping along.  With his gun in his hand, he kept an eye on Angel as he stepped sideways to check on Dru's status.  Still out like a light.  Probably better that way.  The fewer witnesses to what was about to happen, the better.

"Well, well, well."  The droll voice came from the doorway leading to the backstage area, and Spike looked up to see Wood outlined there with Faith at his elbow.  "Looks like someone forgot to mail me my invitation."

"Not that I'm not wondering what in hell you're doing here," Angel said, "but far be it for me to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Oh, are you talking about me?"  Wood feigned surprise.  "The man you've stabbed in the back more times than Caesar?  You don't really think I'm here to help _you_, do you?"

For a moment, Angel faltered, then slapped his let's-just-be-pals smile back on his face.  "Don't tell me you took my little threat seriously?  You know I was just blowing smoke.  That's what I do."

"Funny how blowing smoke vaguely resembles trying to take Rook out yourself."  His brows lifted in bemused arcs when his gaze lit on Drusilla.  "_And_ dragging in the Conti family.  _Brilliant _strategy, Angel.  Piss off everyone in this town with the power to take you out.  That's the mark of a truly stupid tactician."

"So maybe the plan didn't go exactly to scratch---."

"You think so?  Your fiancée is standing there with a gun on you."  Wood looked over at Buffy.  "By the way, I always thought you could do better than him, Miss Summers.  Though William Rook seems to be a step in the wrong direction."

Angel growled in frustration, his hands balling into fists at his sides.  "If we're about done with the lovefest here, you've got what you wanted, Wood.  He's right there.  Take care of him."

And it was then that Spike felt the cool gaze that had flickered over everyone else in the room settle on him.  As he watched, Wood reached into his coat and pulled out a revolver, passing it back to Faith without breaking his stare.  "Ah, yes.  William the Bloody.  Mind if I take a closer look?"  He waved dismissively at Spike's gun.  "Without the benefit of cover, of course."

"Do you think I'm that stupid?" Spike shot back, his weapon never wavering.

"No, I think you're that in love.  Faith, if Mr. Rook even blinks at me wrong, I want you to shoot Miss Summers, understand?"

"You got it, tiger."

Wood smiled.  "There's no reason we can't be adult about this, William.  If I'd only wanted you dead, I wouldn't have gone to such great lengths to try and get you behind bars."

Slowly, Spike lowered his arm, though his gun remained ready in his hand.  Buffy was safe---no way would Faith shoot her after following this close to the letter on the plan---but until Wes and the feds showed up, he was going to have to play along.

Several measured steps brought Wood to stand in front of him, his dark gaze sweeping up and down in such a way that Spike had to fight the urge to stand on his tiptoes.  "You're shorter than I remember," he finally commented.

"And you're balder.  Guess it all balances out."

"So tell me, William---oh, wait.  It's Spike now, isn't it?  New name, new life, new girl.  Things are just peachy for you, aren't they?"

"Can't complain."

Wood only nodded, as if he hadn't expected any less of a response.  "So, tell me, _Spike_…when you look at me, do you see Nikki?  I've always been told the resemblance between us was remarkable.  Of course, that resemblance might be a little distorted for you since the last time you saw her she was lying twisted and broken in a subway car."

"I see Nikki every single day," Spike said simply.  Pointless trying to lie when she was staring back at him from the visage of her brother.  He was right; the resemblance was uncanny.  "She's been my fuckin' Jiminy Cricket for five bloody years now."

Silence ensued, until Wood lifted his hands and began deliberately clapping.  "Nice touch," he commented.  "Dramatic with just that hint of angry desperation.  Too bad I don't believe a word of it."

"He's telling you the truth!"

Though he didn't look at her, it was time for Spike to toss back the words she'd given him earlier.  "Appreciate the show of support, Buffy, but stay out of this.  It doesn't have anything to do with you."

Wood didn't even spare her a glance.  "You always were the ladies man.  How's that cute little redhead doing?  She's usually right there in the thick of things from what I hear."

He refused to rise to the bait, the only indication that the words had hit, a slight twitch in his jaw.  "There a point to all this small talk?" he quizzed.  "Not that I'm not a fan of the pun-and-run, but gotta admit, not really in the mood for it at the moment."

"No."  Wood immediately sobered.  "Neither am I.  It's quite simple, really.  Miss Summers is welcome to walk at any time, while you will accompany me and my men to the police station.  I hear stripes are all the vogue this year."

"And yet, I still haven't sussed why you don't just plug me, once and for all.  Eye for an eye, and all that cack." 

"Because death is too quick," he replied.  "I'm not interested in seeing you pay.  I'm interested in seeing you _suffer_."

And there was the rub.  For Spike knew, even if Wood didn't, that he'd done nothing but every day for the past half-decade.  Going to jail would be butter and cream compared to some of the nightmares he'd had to endure.  Still, with Buffy now in his life, he had a future that was worth fighting every step to the pen, and fuck Wood if he thought for a second he'd go along with him with his tail tucked between his legs.

"Not that it makes a sod of difference," Spike said, "but if there was one day in my life I could take back and do over, the night Nikki died would be it.  I've never---."

"Don't you dare apologize," Wood spat.  "She deserves better than that."

"She does, and I wasn't.  Sayin' sorry doesn't change anything or bring her back."  And it didn't.  As if a switch had been thrown in his brain, Spike saw the clarity in his words and knew what he had to do.  Making amends wasn't about going broody and letting his past cloud his future.  He took a life; payback meant saving one in return.

Slowly, Spike squatted and set his gun down on the floor, keeping his eyes on the man before him.  When Wood frowned but didn't move, he let his hand slip into his coat pocket, extracting a single key.  "Here," he said, holding it out.  "This is for the black Desoto parked around the corner in front of Kelly's.  I suggest you take it and run.  In about five minutes, the feds are going to be crawling all over this place with enough evidence to put you and Wilkins here behind bars until your grandkids are gray and wrinkled.  You go now, you should beat them."

"Spike!"  This time he looked back at Buffy, and saw the look in incredulity on her face.  "You let him walk, and they'll nail you for breaking the contract.  What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I'll have to renegotiate," Spike answered, and turned back to Wood.  "Well?  It's a good deal.  You'll be on the run, but you'll still be a free man, and that's what counts, right?"

Long black fingers curled around the key before slipping into his trousers pocket.  "I gotta hand it to you, Rook.  You got balls.  I don't believe you for a second about this wild goose chase, but still…it takes balls to bluff when your back's up against the wall."  He gave his pocket a shake, the key jangling with the loose coins in it.  "Thanks for the car, though.  I can always use an extra set of wheels."

Spike shook his head.  "You're making a mistake."

"No, I think I'm just starting to get things right---."

He was cut off by the doors suddenly being thrown open, and Wesley, Xander, and Giles appearing in the doorway with weapons drawn and a coterie of federal agents behind them.  With the lack of a barrier, the distant sounds of voices and sirens from the street finally penetrated the dance floor, and it prompted the nerves of all to begin to race.

Angel was the first to react.

As he began to lunge for the nearest man, Buffy shouted in warning, followed almost instantaneously by the firing of her gun.  The single shot triggered a cascade effect, a barrage of bullets flying across the room in each direction.

Spike dropped to the floor.

Wood dove for cover under one of the tables near the back entrance.

Faith pressed herself into the doorway as the gun in her hand recoiled from the shot she fired.

"Stop!"  Snyder's voice rang out and brought immediate silence to the room.  He stepped past the throng of men who'd been protecting him, and it was only then that Spike noticed the display.

Two bodies were slumped to the floor, victims of the spontaneous fray.  Both sets of eyes were closed, unconscious or dead he was unsure.  And twin pools of blood were forming beneath their torsos.  He recognized both, and steeled himself for what was to come.

Angel.  Though with his luck, the wanker was probably still among the living.

And Wesley…

To be continued in Chapter 44:  The Redemption of His Name…


	44. The Redemption of His Name

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  The feds have arrived at Heaven, resulting in a confusing shootout between Buffy and Faith, and the arriving forces; it left Angel and Wesley unconscious and bleeding on the floor…

*************

Nothing like a couple bleeding bodies to make all hell break loose, Faith thought as she watched the feds scramble to prevent anyone else getting hit.  Wesley's assistant---_what had she said her name was again?  Oh yeah, Jenny_---came bursting through the doors, and immediately dropped to his side, ripping open his jacket to expose the spreading crimson stain on his white shirt.

She knew it was her bullet that was buried in his body.  She'd only fired three rounds, two of which had been deliberately wide, and Buffy's shot had dropped Angel before Faith had managed to squeeze off one.  Now she could only watch helplessly while Giles and Xander knelt by Wesley as well.

"Don't crowd him!" Jenny barked as she worked.  Her fingers lit on his neck, and her face was tight.

"Is he alive?" Snyder asked.

"Barely.  We have to get him to the hospital.  Now."

Giles straightened and holstered his weapon.  "Our car is right out front.  We'll take him."

Xander had already scooped Wesley into his arms when Snyder nodded.  "Do what it takes," the fed said.  But as the quartet rushed from Heaven, a swarm of police brushed past them, led by no one other than the man himself, Officer Riley Finn.

Only when they started squabbling amongst themselves did Faith's attention divert from the show, her ear catching the murmured cadences of Spike's voice by the stage.

"Run, you stupid git," he was saying.  Blue eyes bored into Wood's, both men crouched on the floor only a few feet apart.  "Last call for freedom.  Diversions don't get any better than this."

From her vantage point, she couldn't see Wood's face, but she heard no words come from his mouth.  Instead, his body began to inch silently backward, creeping from the protection of the table to edge to the doorway within which she waited.  He stood when his heels hit the wall, all panther-like grace and stealth as his eyes remained on the crowd at the foyer doors for a moment before turning to the exit.

His gaze was enigmatic as he looked down at her.  "I don't suppose you'd like a ride somewhere?" he murmured in a caramel voice that reminded her of their afternoon spent in his bed.

A quick survey of the room was all the time she needed.  "Yeah," Faith replied, pushing the door open just enough for the two of them to slip through.  "Drop me off wherever you're going."

They were both gone before anyone other than Spike and Buffy could notice.

*************

Kate stepped aside as they carried the bleeding man out of the club, droplets of crimson scattering to the elegant floor like rain, and then scurried forth to see Riley towering over a dwarf of a man, arguing about something that sounded like jurisdiction.

"We have everything under control here," Shorty said.  His chest was puffed up in self-importance, and instinctively, Kate moved to Riley's side in a show of solidarity.

"Since when does under control translate to gunplay and dead bodies?" Riley barked.  He jabbed a finger at Angel's inert form.  "Especially when one of those bodies belongs to Angel Wilkins?"

As if he'd been directly addressed, Angel groaned, prompting both policemen and federal agents to crowd around him.

"Doesn't look like he's dead to me," Shorty replied smugly and turned away as if he was done, hooking his thumb toward the doors.  "Get him outta here, boys."

"And I said…"  Riley blocked the exit, arms folded across his chest.  "Nobody's going anywhere until I start getting some explanations, or I'm going to haul your asses down to the precinct and book you for obstruction of justice."

With an exasperated sigh, the smaller man reached into his pocket and extracted a leather wallet, opening it and flashing a gold-colored badge.  "The name's Snyder," he said, "and you're out of your depth here, Officer.  In fact, you're interrupting a major bust, so if you don't want to be charged yourself, I suggest you run along and let the big boys do the dirty work."

At that moment, Kate took the luxury of looking around the interior of the club, seeing for the first time the two women near the stage and the crouched figure on the floor.  "Um…Riley?" she said, eyes locked on the man with the odd bleached hair.

"Not now, Lockley."

"No, I think now is exactly perfect."  She pointed across the room.  "That's William Rook."

The hitman's name jerked Riley's attention around, and he stiffened as he watched Rook rise to his feet.  A smug smile spread across his face as he looked back to Snyder.  "You've got a fugitive of justice in here," he said.  "And I'm not leaving without him in cuffs."

"I don't think so."

The intervention of the fourth party caused all of them to turn and see Lindsey McDonald pushing his way through the throng.  The warm sweep of his gaze over Kate was enough to make her smile momentarily, before she remembered where she was and returned to solemnity.

"And who the hell are you?" Riley demanded.

"This is Lindsey McDonald," she said before Lindsey could respond.

"The mouthpiece who went missing?"

"The one and only."

Pulling a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, Lindsey held them out for inspection.  "I see my reputation precedes me," he said, flashing Kate another grin.  "But as I was saying, you're not taking my client anywhere.  As of five o'clock this afternoon, all outstanding warrants for William Rook were officially dismissed, by order of Mr. Snyder here as a representative of the federal justice system.  If you care to check in with your captain, I'm sure you'll find that there's no need to take Mr. Rook into custody, and in fact, if you do so, you'll most likely be faced with your own charges of false arrest."

Deep lines furrowed Finn's brow, and Kate craned her neck to read the papers over the swell of his arm.  "Is there a player in this you're _not _representing?" he muttered.

"I'm merely interested in seeing that all interested parties have their rights preserved," Lindsey clarified.  His eyes turned to Kate.  "I certainly didn't expect to find _you_ here, Miss Lockley.  That's…an unexpected surprise."

"And your ability to pop up in the oddest places is just as surprising," she responded coolly.  "Too bad Faith's not around to require your services, too."

Snyder frowned.  "I thought she was…" he started, and pushed his way through his men to stand at the edge of the dance floor.  A furious scowl darkened his features.  "Where in hell did Wood go?"

*************

She hung back, watching as both uniforms and suits worked in tandem to get Angel comfortable.  An ambulance was on the way for both him and Dru; that had been one of the first orders Snyder had barked after dispatching a crew to search for Wood.  The blood, though, was everywhere---spattered on the wall where Angel had struggled with the men, staining the clothes of everyone who came into contact with him, pooled along the seam where the wall met the floor…which prompted the irrational wondering if the tile was somehow warped so that the fluid could roll in such a way.

Buffy started when he turned his head to look at her, his eyes narrow slits as he glared at her.  "Bitch," Angel muttered.

"Excuse me?" she said indignantly, stepping forward.  He confessed to being responsible for all the misery in her life, and _she_ was the bitch?  The desire to shoot him again, just to shut him up, suddenly swelled inside her.

"You heard me," he said.  He batted at the hands that were trying to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder.  "After everything I did for you, this is how you repay me?"

"Don't even start on the issue of _repayment_," Buffy snapped.  "If I were you, I'd be thanking my lucky stars that the list of stuff I could tell them wasn't tacked on to whatever else they've got on you.  You'd be frying at Sing Sing for sure."

For a moment, his eyes fluttered shut, his breath ragged as he deeply inhaled.  A choking cough interrupted the peace of his breathing, and it was almost a minute before he'd regained his composure enough to lift his lids again.  "I'm not going to forget," Angel said, and his voice was eerily soft, sending shivers down her spine with its icy calm.  "When I beat this rap, you just know the first thing I'm going to do is find you.  You can hide in Timbuktu, you can hide in Siberia, you can hide on the fucking moon.  It won't change a thing.  Hide, and I'm going to seek.  It's not over, Buffy.  You and me are forever."

It was like a punch to her solar plexus, and she went rigid.  "I should've aimed lower," she said, the flaring of her nostrils the only outward sign of her agitation.  "Aimed for your heart instead of your shoulder.  Oh, wait.  You don't have one."

"Ambulance is here," an approaching agent said.

Too quickly, Buffy was bustled away, but when she turned to find Spike, she found herself confronted with the broad chest of Officer Finn.  She froze.

"You all right?" he asked gently.

She nodded.  He'd heard her.  There was no way he couldn't have.  But her mouth refused to work any more, suddenly dry and dangerously close to going into overdrive by convulsively gulping down air.

"I don't know who's going to get the write-up," he said, and the careful tone in his voice made her risk a glance up into his kind eyes, "but whatever department it is, I'll do what it takes to make sure your name doesn't come up in conjunction with Wilkins' injury.  You don't need that kind of hassle."  Briefly, his gaze jumped to Snyder bearing down on them.  "I think you're going to have enough anyway."

"Thank you," she breathed.  "I don't know how…but…thank you."

Riley smiled.  "My pleasure.  But, you know, if you ever feel the need to call it square, doing a dedication to good ol' Officer Finn when you're making it big and famous on the radio or the pictures might not be a bad thing."

She laughed in spite of the tension in her chest.  "It's a deal."

"And speaking of deals…"  Snyder stopped at her elbow, and she was surprised that she didn't really have to look up in order to meet his eyes.  "You have some testimonies to make, Miss Summers.  My men are ready to escort you to my offices."

"Let me just get Spike---."

"He's already been escorted from the premises.  I'll not have you tainting each other's statements by being transported together.  Now.  If you please?"

With a heavy sigh, she merely nodded, and followed him from the club.  Something told her it was going to be a very long night.

*************

It could be night.  It could be day.  It could be the middle of the century's worst snowstorm, and Willow would still be stuck staring at the blank walls around her, floating back and forth in the morphine-drugged daze that was becoming far too familiar, wondering if she was actually in the real world anymore or if she'd actually slipped into some alternative universe opened up by the sedatives.

Her only visitors since Wesley that morning had been hospital staff.  Nurse, nurse, cute orderly, different nurse, cute orderly again, doctor, doctor.  Keeping track of them was the only way she could keep her brain from disintegrating into the fragments the painkillers were encouraging, but even that was beginning to fail her as she felt sleep threaten to overwhelm.

So, when her door finally opened, Willow was fairly sure it was the hallucination finally winning.  Especially when the hallucination looked like the lollipop-sucking munchkin from _The Wizard of Oz_.

"You're awake.  Good," he said as he approached the bed.

"I'm awake," she parroted.  "Not so sure about the good part, though."

"I'm Mr. Snyder.  I'm the one who's been asked to approve your treatment here."

Her eyes widened.  "Oh," she said simply.  Wesley's boss.  How did someone so weaselly get into such a high position of power?

"Yes," he continued as if she hadn't spoken at all.  "Imagine my chagrin when I'm informed of Mr. Wyndam-Pryce's abuse of this facility.  That not only had he participated in the…fight that led to your injury, but that he'd authorized your immediate treatment prior to any written agreement being reached between him and myself, or he and Rook."

Suddenly, she wasn't so sure she _wasn't_ hallucinating.  Under normal circumstances, she was top drawer at interpreting honcho-speak, but this… Did he mean that Spike had struck a deal with the feds?  Or that Wes had reached some understanding about his own position with the agency?  Or something else entirely?  

Her head was awhirl.  The conversation she'd had earlier with Wesley swam inside her ears, all his words jumbling and blending together until none of it made sense any more.  Maybe he'd told her all this and she'd just forgotten.  Stupid morphine.  She was almost willing to put up with all the pain just to have her clear noggin back.

"Under the circumstances, though," Snyder said, "I'm willing to overlook it, Miss Rosenberg.  As soon as the doctors deem you healthy enough to travel, arrangements will be made to transfer you.  Someplace in California, I think."

"Circumstances?  What circumstances?"

"Of this evening's events."

"OK, unless you mean my latest dosage from the cute orderly, I have absolutely no idea what events you're talking about."

For the first time since entering her room, Snyder seemed to falter.  "Oh dear," he said.  "You haven't been told."

"Told what?"

"I assumed Miss Calendar would take it upon herself, but perhaps she's too busy---."

"Told what?" she repeated.

He took a deep breath.  "There was an ambush tonight," he said.  "Wesley was shot."

"No…"  But he'd just been there, she rationalized.  And he'd been fine.  But just was this morning, and apparently fine meant doing something stupid like turning himself into someone else's target practice.  "Where is…is he…how…"

"I'm sorry, he didn't make it."  The next seemed to blur together, and she found herself staring at him as if he'd suddenly grown a second head.  "Miss Calendar called me some time ago to let me know he was pronounced DOA.  She's taking care of the arrangements---."

"Dead.  You're telling me he's dead?"

A long silence passed where he seemed all too fascinated with the hair on the back of his knuckles.  "Miss Calendar knows all the details.  She's made arrangements for his body to be flown back to England tonight---."

"England?  Tonight?"  There could be a whole ocean between them already.  She wouldn't ever see him again.  She squeezed her eyes shut in hopes that that would make this little munchkin man go away, but when she opened them again, he was still standing there.

"Wesley was a good man," Snyder said simply.  "I'm sorry his career with the agency had to end this way."  And with a curt nod, he left the room.

The room was stifling, the walls too close, and more than anything else, Willow wished that the drugs in her system could eradicate all memories of what she'd been told, that she could lose herself in oblivion and not consider that she was alone again.  Of course, she'd settle for just remembering more clearly their conversation from that morning.

Something about _trust_ and _Jenny_ and _what had to be done_ were the pieces that echoed the most often, but it was the other, the words that pulsed in time with her heart rate that resounded the loudest.

_…loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou…_

Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she burrowed herself as far under her blankets as her injury would allow her.

It couldn't be true.  She wouldn't let it.

Wesley.  Wasn't.  Dead.

*************

All he wanted was some sleep.  Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, and the thought of facing the next twenty-four without the benefit of forty winks---or twenty, he'd settle for twenty---left Spike with a bad taste in his mouth that not even the nicotine was helping to fight.

Staring out at the twinkling lights of the city, he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl up and away as it caught on the slight breeze.  Behind him, he could hear Ripper and that Calendar dame packing away the things in the hotel bedroom, removing all remnants of personal belongings for shipping off.  She was going to tackle Wesley's flat the next day, and it was a job he didn't envy her.  It was going to leave her with that final sense of goodbye she'd been studiously avoiding since leaving Heaven.  One that had been hanging over him in spite of doing everything he could to keep it at bay.

He was done here.  Snyder had what he wanted; the local cops were still arbitrating for some of the kitty, and McDonald was sticking behind to keep everything on the up and up.  He'd heard secondhand the tale of how they'd picked up Lilah Morgan, and wished fervently he'd been there instead of holed up in a tiny windowless room with a sweaty fed who refused to allow him to see Buffy.  As of that moment, Spike still hadn't seen her.  That cop who'd led the bulls brigade at Heaven had turned watchdog on anyone trying to get to her, so he'd eventually left after convincing the pretty police psychologist to slip Buffy a note.

The soft tread on the carpet behind him didn't distract him from the skyline, and Spike tapped his cigarette with a flick of his thumb, sending his ash scattering into the wind.  "Gonna miss this view," he commented.  "There's nothin' like New York at night, that's for certain."

"We're about done here," Ripper said quietly.  "Jenny's taken a room closer to the hospital in order to better maintain an adequate watch.  There's nothing left for us to do."

"Maybe not for you."

"Spike…"

"Not goin' anywhere without her, Ripper."  He turned then, his face stolid.  "I didn't do all this to leave Buffy behind."

"They're not even letting you see her."

"All the more reason not to do a runner."  Dropping his cigarette over the sill, Spike stood, but winced when he began to pace.  Immediately, Ripper was at his side, leading him to the couch where he collapsed in the corner.  "Can't even walk right in my current state," he joked, massaging his injured thigh.  "So running's pretty much out of the question."

With a heavy sigh, Giles removed his glasses and sat down on the table's edge opposite his friend.  "You can't stay in the city, Spike," he said softly.  "Snyder's made it very clear that he wants you out of the way while they continue searching for Wood, and then there's the matter of Drusilla Conti's father."

"I fuckin' _saved_ Dru." 

"And she was shot while in your presence.  Plus, you were instrumental in Angel's apprehension.  Conti has no idea that he's not next on your list, so he'll see you as a turncoat.  You can't risk him coming after you, too."

"I'm not leaving Buffy---."

"Does she love you?"

The simple question made him stop, searching Ripper's clear eyes for some duplicity.  "Yes," he said, and believed it with his entire soul.

"Then she'll follow," Ripper replied.  "You have to trust her, Spike.  And the last thing she'd want is for you to put yourself at more risk by sticking around merely for her sake."

The logic of the argument battled with the exhaustion clogging Spike's thoughts, and his head fell back against the cushions.  "I'm not leaving without at least talkin' to her," he said quietly.

"Of course not."

"So that's it then."  He stared up at the ceiling, meandering in the swirls of the plaster as the reality of it hit.  No more excuses.  No more job.  No more legal shenanigans to keep him tethered to the place that had brought him both Buffy and the redemption of his name.  "Guess we're goin' home…"

To be concluded in Chapter 45: Her Kind of Man…


	45. Her Kind of Man

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.    
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Angel's been arrested, Wood's escaped with Faith, Snyder's told Willow about Wesley's getting shot at Heaven, and Spike wrapped up his dealings with the feds so that he can head home to California…

*************

He woke to the warbling of the birds in the nest outside his still-broken bedroom window, a curious blend of the babies' ravenous chirps and their mother's responding coos.  It cut even through the down of Spike's pillow, and he buried his cheek further into its underdepths, his cotton sheets uncharacteristically warm against his cheek.  Just a few feet away, his gun rested on his nightstand, waiting to be cradled in his palm like a long-lost lover and aimed at the poor misbegotten telephone pole upon which the nest perched.

He didn't move to pick it up.  Every morning of the two weeks since his return to California he had awoken to the birdsong, and every morning it went unmolested, scattering into the dawning sunshine and through the empty pane on motes of light and charm that he swore he could reach out and scoop into his hand if he only tried.  It wouldn't be so loud if he got the window fixed, but the incentive to get it done was elusive, vanishing as soon as he rose from his bed and faced another day without Buffy.  If he was going to be without her voice, he wanted at least to cling to the pale reminders the birds provided.  He was going to be a ponce that way.

Six days.  That's how long it had been since he'd last spoken to her.  And fifteen since he'd last seen her face.  Standing in the airport terminal the morning after the shakedown at Heaven, with that white bread cop who'd appointed himself her personal bodyguard hovering in the background.

_"How long do you think it'll take?" he'd asked._

_Buffy had shrugged.  "A few weeks.  I have to be around for all the depositions, and then there's the probate stuff, and packing, and did you know that Drusilla Conti actually sent me a condolence card about what happened to Angel?"  She shook her head.  "I swear, that girl is loopy to the nth degree."_

_He couldn't even touch her.  Appearances had to be made and if any suspicion regarding their relationship leaked out, neither of them doubted that not even stalwart Officer Finn could keep it from getting complicated.  The bust would look like a lover's quarrel, and Angel would find a way to walk, which was the last thing either of them wanted.  So he just stood there, hands fisted deep inside his pockets because it was the only means he could find to keep his fingers from gliding over her skin, or pulling her against him, or grabbing her and running as far from the maelstrom of New York City as possible.  And even that small bit of control was beginning to fail miserably._

_"You got my numbers?" Spike asked._

_"Home, office, Giles', Xander's, and all the local bars in the event you decide to test the theory that you can pick up blonde singers no matter what state you're in," she teased, and then sobered.  "Hopefully, I won't need them for long."_

_"Hopefully."  The final boarding announcement for his flight made him jerk, and he forced himself to pick up the bag at his feet.  "Not particularly good at just walking away, pet," he said, and his voice was rough with emotion.  _

_"You're not," Buffy said.  Lightly grasping his forearms, she leaned upward to press her cheek lightly to his in a gesture that could easily be mistaken as a warm adieu to a friend, but left Spike's mouth tingling with electricity, his lashes fluttering shut as the scent of her hair filled his nostrils.  "Dream of me," she whispered.  "Because every second I don't see you, I'll be dreaming of you."_

_Her eyes had been bright when she'd pulled away, but nothing had been betrayed in her voice.  "Thank you," she'd said, stepping back toward Finn.  "For everything."_

_And with that, she'd been gone._

There had been a couple phone calls, conversations that started out innocently enough with recaps of what was going on in the Big Apple but quickly segued into hours of whispers and vows and wishes that stretched into the wee hours of the morning, leaving Spike hard, and aching, and desperate to have her within the circle of his arms again.  But the last of those had been almost a week earlier, and he was slowly feeling the itch to just say bugger it and hop on the next flight back.

He wouldn't, of course.  Well, at least he would try not to.  He had to give her the benefit of the doubt.  She'd show.  Even if it took… No.  He wasn't going to consider that.  She would show.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Spike sat up, rubbing wearily at his eyes as he rolled his shoulders.  He was going to actually have to do something today; the rest and relaxation he'd taken as his due was starting to wear a little thin.  Could go to the bank, he reasoned.  Do something about that twenty-five large, in case the feds start getting funny about it.  Maybe go out and buy something pretty for Buffy, to surprise her when she finally got there.  

Before he could ponder it further, the jangle of the phone clamored over the bird, demanding to be answered, and he reached to bring the receiver to his ear.  "Yeah?" he said into the mouthpiece.

"You know, one of these days, you might actually consider introducing an actual greeting when you pick up the phone.  I hear hello is very popular these days."

In spite of his blue mood, Spike smiled at the cheer in Willow's tone, and sagged back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.  "Someone's been at the coffeepot again," he teased.  "What've I told you about that, Red?"

"Hey, I'll have you know that this gal is one hundred percent caffeine free," she replied.  "This is pure, unadulterated Willow coming at you.  Besides, coffee and those painkillers they're still making me take?  My poor body wouldn't know if it was a-coming or a-going."

He chuckled.  "This a social call?"

"Well, if you mean social as in asking my good friend Spike to come pick me up and talk to me while he drives me to the office in his car, then yeah, this is a social call."

"The office?  You're s'posed to be restin' and recoverin'.  Doc's orders, if memory serves.  Since when does work fall in that category?"

"Since I'm going stir crazy sitting here staring at my apartment walls all day," Willow replied.  "The way I figure it, if I'm going to be sitting around, location isn't so much important so why can't I be doing the books at the same time?"

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't actually fault her logic.  There was only so much doing nothing Red could do at a time, and considering she'd been out of it for close to a month now, he was surprised her it had taken her this long to ask.

Besides, she was dealing with her own emotional upheaval with everything that happened in New York.  The least he could do was make it as easy for her as possible.

"You promise not to stay too long?" he asked.  He tightened his accent, striving for that Ripper tone that always seemed to work so well on her.

"Cross my heart."

"And you'll ring me as soon as you're ready to go back?"

"Like there's someone else in town I could call."

"I don't hear you promising, Red."

"That's because it's a stupid question."

"Really?  I seem to recollect a certain redhead goin' walkies durin' a rainstorm one time when she didn't feel like bothering her two partners for a ride---."

"You were passed out!"

"You could've asked Ripper."

"Do you _not_ remember that clunker he was driving at the time?"

Spike rolled his eyes.  "Sounds like someone doesn't really want a ride---."

"Fine.  I promise."

He could hear her sigh of frustration through the line and grinned.  He knew she'd had every intention of sticking it out at the office, probably planned on spending the night---certainly wouldn't be the first time---and it was only her reliance on him for transportation that was making her agree to cutting it short.  At least it gives me something to do, he thought as he rose to his feet.  And after I'm done with my errands, I'll just pop back there and make sure she makes good on her promise.

"Gimme an hour," Spike instructed.  "I've only just rolled outta bed myself.  Unless you want me smellin' like three-day-old socks---."

"An hour is good.  See ya then."

As he ambled to the bathroom, the image of Willow burying herself in files made him shake his head.  Let her have her way and he wouldn't see until Christmas.  As the current rate of disappearing friends went, he couldn't really afford that to happen.

*************

The top of the desk was completely hidden from view, with corresponding stacks surrounding her chair in piles high enough to reach her knees if she bothered to stand up.  She wouldn't, of course.  Just walking down the stairs in her apartment building to get to Spike's car had about wiped her out.  Willow planned on sitting for a very long time.  Or until Spike showed up to take her home.  Whichever came first.

It was better this way.  This way, she was busy with things that didn't involve gunshots or hospitals or absent Englishmen with flashing blue eyes.

Except…wait.  Spike and Giles both had blue eyes and Giles wasn't around either.  Poo.  Just stop thinking completely, Willow, she chided herself.  Numbers and columns and dates are your friends.  They don't disappear without even saying good-bye…well, they wouldn't if they could talk.  Which they couldn't, but that was beside the matter…

And why was she having so many problems concentrating?

When the knock came at the door, she realized she'd never been more grateful for a distraction. She looked up and called out, "Come in!"

The familiar dark head poked through the crack, a wide grin on his face.  "Someone here order a pizza?"

"Xander!"  Willow brightened.  "What are you doing here?"

Pushing the door open, he sauntered to step just inside, leaving it ajar behind him.  "Anya let me out of the house early on good behavior.  But I think the better question is…what are _you_ doing here?  Aren't you supposed to be home with those dogs of yours up?"

"My dogs were getting bored, so I decided to get some work done."

"Wait.  You didn't walk all the way from your apartment---."

She held up her hand, cutting him off.  "Before you go all overprotective on me too, Spike picked me up and brought me over.  And he's stopping back in a little bit to take me home again.  So stop worrying about me, OK?"

"Oh.  OK."  He nodded for a moment, content with her explanation, and then frowned.  "Wait.  So Spike's not home either?"

Willow shook her head.  "He said he had some errands to run.  The bank and stuff.  Why?"

"No reason," he said with a shrug, and shot a cursory glance over his shoulder at the hall before giving her his full attention.  "How're you doin'?  You hangin' in there?"

He didn't have to elaborate in order for her to understand what he was referring to.  "So so," she replied softly. "I miss him.  A lot.  And I can't help but think that it might not be so bad if we'd just had a chance to really talk before…everything happened.  I mean, you guys were all there, and I…"  Dropping her eyes, Willow began playing with the files before her, obsessively straightening them even though they were already perfectly square.  "I get so angry sometimes, and I wish he was here so I could yell at him for being so dopey.  But that just makes me feel guilty because…well, because, and so I go to sleep, only he's there as soon as I close my eyes and I think…"  Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.  "…that's even worse.  Because then, everything is perfect, and we're lying on the alpaca rug, and it's soft and warm and cuddly.  We talk for what seems like hours.  Then when he kisses me, everything…disappears.  And I wake up, and…he's not there."  

She looked up then, and shook herself when she realized Xander wasn't saying a word.  "But that's just me being silly," she said.  "What about you and Anya?  Two weeks is a long time to be stuck in the doghouse."

"That wasn't so bad, surprisingly enough.  She's pretty much accepted the fact that I'm a spineless puppy who does whatever he's told and so puts the blame for the entire New York experience directly onto Spike's shoulders.  According to Ahn, the rest of us are just victim to his 'nefarious charm.'"

"It probably doesn't hurt that he's paying you five thousand dollars for two weeks worth of work, either."

"Nope.  Gotta say that did wonders in paying off the angry Anya meter."

Pushing back her chair, Willow set her hands on the edge of her desk and carefully eased herself to a standing position.  "How about we go grab some lunch?" she said, stepping from behind the desk.  "I'll leave a note for Spike that you're going to take me home and you can help distract me from my overactive imagination."

"Actually…I told Anya I'd be back in time to eat with her.  My morning kind of got gobbled up trying to find you."  He waggled a warning finger at her.  "You should have been at home, missy."

"Oh."  Puzzled, she frowned as she searched his face.  "Were you looking for me for a specific reason or something?"

"I had something to drop off for you.  Wait here."  And before she could more closely examine the expectant look in his eyes, he had walked back out into the hallway.

It took only a moment for his footsteps to return, but when they did, it wasn't Xander's form that filled the doorway.

It was Wesley's.

Only two weeks had passed since she'd last seen him, and yet he seemed to have aged two years in that time span.  Dark shadows haunted the hollows beneath his eyes, and a few days worth of stubble graced his jawline.  A sling held his left arm immobile with his jacket thrown casually over his shoulders, and the rest of his clothing bore the unmistakable wrinkling that only happened after traveling for a very long time.

But in spite of the weariness of his body, a small smile graced his lips, and behind his glasses, his eyes sparkled as soon as he saw her.

"Wesley!" she cried out, and without considering her prior ache, launched herself forward, throwing her arms around him as she buried her face in his chest.  Inhaling deeply, she smiled at the strength of his returning hug, lost in the joy of having him back, safe and sound.

His almost imperceptible wince was what finally drove her away, and Willow pulled back, suddenly aware of the pain in her own healing injury.  "Oops," she apologized, blushing from her over-enthusiasm.  "I guess I forgot for a minute there."

"It's all right," he said quietly.  "So did I."

"Well," Xander announced in a voice that was too loud for the intimacy that now pervaded the room, "guess my work here is done.  I'll just leave you two lovebirds alone so that you can get caught up and…"  They weren't even looking at him, and he shook his head, knowing that he could announce he'd just been crowned Miss America and neither would notice.  "Just remember you're both still in recovery," he said.  "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, which, considering who I'm married to, isn't surprisingly much."

"When did you get here?  Why didn't you call?  Where's Jenny?  Does it hurt?  Oh, god, I've missed you so much."  Breathless and coming forth in a torrent that not even her wound could stem, her words washed over both of them, wrapping them tightly while at the same time rooting them in the reality of their situation as they stood only inches apart.

"I've missed you, too," Wesley replied, and nodded toward the small couch against the wall.  "Can we sit?  I'm afraid I'm a bit---."

"Oh!  My bad!  Of course.  You've got to be jetlagged, and then there's the whole getting over being shot thing.  Come here."  Taking him by the hand, Willow led him to the sofa, both of them sinking into the worn black leather at the same time.  The small two-seater forced them to be close, their knees touching as they angled themselves to look at each other.  It was as if both believed that if they looked away, the other would cease to be there.

His right hand immediately reached forward and grasped hers, warm and strong.  "You're looking much better than the last time I saw you," he said.  "I hated seeing you in that hospital bed."

His comment reminded her of how little she had fussed with her appearance that morning.  A quick brush of her hair, a dab of gloss.  And she was wearing her comfort clothes, the sweater and skirt that hung off her thin frame without exacerbating her injury.  Willow blushed, ducking her gaze.  "I look like something the cat dragged in, but thanks for trying to make me feel better about it."

As quickly as he'd taken her hand, he pulled away, his fingers going gently to her chin to tilt her face back up to look at him.  "You look lovely," he reiterated.  "Most definitely a sight for sore eyes."

She didn't know what to say.  The questions that had bubbled forth now were lost in the clamor of her runaway emotions.  Relief, to finally see him.  Residual anger, for having to be put through what he had done.  Guilt at herself, for feeling angry about something she knew he had done for her.  And love, deep and bubbling and just screaming to be let loose.

"So," he finally said, shattering the silence that had settled between them, "you were saying?"

"Huh?  I was saying something?"

Wesley smiled.  "Your queries.  You want answers."

"Oh, only if…well, _some_ answers would be nice, but I'll understand if…OK, yeah, I want answers," she finished under his knowing gaze.  "Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

"Because I wasn't certain myself," he replied.  "Frankly, Jenny wanted me to stay underground for at least a month, in order to ensure we managed to fool Snyder, but when the doctors told me yesterday that I was well enough to travel, the first thing I did was make Jenny get me a ticket out here."

Mentioning doctors alerted her attention to his sling, and she raised unsteady fingers to his bound shoulder.  "Does it hurt much?"

"It would hurt less if Faith was as good a shot as she claimed to be." He grimaced as he looked down at it.  "Part of me is of the mind that she deliberately aimed lower in order to work out some frustrations.  But I suppose I'll never know the answer to that, now will I?"

She shook her head.  Nobody had heard from Faith since she'd disappeared from Heaven, though she wasn't sure about Spike's theory that she'd scampered off with Wood.  He had seen her leave with the mobster---who was also still at large---and professed that she must've found another sugar daddy ready to keep her in the style to which she'd become accustomed.  Willow's argument that Wood was probably now without his usual resources somehow fell on deaf ears.

"I still think the plan was insane," she said, voicing aloud the most prevalent of her thoughts from the past two weeks.

The lines around Wesley's eyes crinkled as he smiled.  "I thought you'd characterized it as 'dopey,'" he teased, and was rewarded with a corresponding flush.

"You heard that, huh?"

"Well, I _was_ only in the hallway."  His mirth faded, his eyes darkening as they grew serious again.  "It was the only way I was ever going to be free, Willow.  You have to see that.  There was nothing in Snyder's contracts that was going to guarantee my release from my position, and considering my rather unorthodox relationship with Spike, Jenny and I both believed that Snyder would've exploited me to my fullest and refused my resignation."

"But he can't do that.  It was just a job.  You get to _quit_ jobs."

"Quit, yes.  Live to appreciate it, not always."  He shook his head.  "I knew too much.  Nothing I could've said would've convinced Snyder I wasn't a security risk.  He would've seen to it that I was terminated permanently, so really, faking my death was my only option."

"But telling me about it beforehand wasn't."

He had the decency to look abashed at her direct statement, and it was his turn to break his gaze away.  "That was _my_ mistake," he said, regret roughening his voice.  "You were still so weak when I saw you that morning, and I…I couldn't bring myself to tell you for fear that it would adversely affect your recovery.  And then when the arrangements were brought forward…there wasn't time for me to do it myself."  His eyes came back up then, blue burning bright behind his glasses.  "You have to believe I never wanted you to be hurt from this, Willow.  We didn't anticipate Snyder to take it upon himself to go see you, let alone tell you that I was dead.  Jenny was---."

"I know," she interrupted.  "She explained it all to me."  She didn't tell Wes how much she'd cried during the night, though, or how the morphine-enhanced nightmares had plagued her those long, dark hours.  When Jenny had arrived just before dawn, weary from the travails of "killing" Wesley---getting him to the black market doctor to tend his wound, arranging for the body they'd stolen from the city morgue to be flown to England in his stead, finishing the forged paperwork he was going to need to start a new life over---it was with red-rimmed eyes that Willow greeted her.  She'd listened to the rushed explanations, wondering if this was just another manifestation of the drugs playing with her head, and it wasn't until Jenny had passed over the letter from Wesley and she'd read the truth for herself, that respite from her grief began to seep through her muscles.

"It would've been nice if I could've kept your letter," she groused half-heartedly.  "Until she came back the second time, I wasn't sure the Jenny part wasn't the part I dreamed up."

"And again, I'm so sorry."  His hand came up to cradle the side of her face.  "But, you know it was evidence, right?  If it had been found, all of our work would've been for naught."

"So that's why all the hush hush on you showing up?" she asked.  

"Partially.  It's also partially because I wanted to surprise you."

"Oh, and being told you're dead isn't surprising at all."  At the bitterness in her tone, Willow grimaced, her nose scrunching up in distaste at her behavior.  "Sorry.  That just slipped out."

"And, hence, the other part of why I didn't call first," Wesley finished.  "I must admit, I was a trifle anxious as to how you'd react.  Whether or not you'd be so furious that you'd refuse to see me.  After all, this would constitute the _second _thing I haven't shared with you."

"You can't believe that I would want you dead?"  Her eyes were shiny with disbelief.  Sure, she'd been angry, but that had only been a small part of it.

"No, but it's rather simple to believe that you wouldn't want me around."  Dropping his hand, Wesley tried to turn away, but was stopped by her feather touch on his knee.

"And which part of 'I missed you so much' was so hard to understand?" she said.  "Not that I didn't get just a little bit of a thrill seeing you show up out of the blue, but…Wesley, look at me."  Willow waited until his blue eyes were trained on hers, the barest hint of trepidation still clinging to their depths.  "I'd be lying if I said we didn't have some things to hash out, not the least of which is the funny habit you have of keeping me out of the loop.  But what matters more than any of that is that you're alive, and you're here, and _I'm_ here, and trust me, if we weren't both the walking wounded, I'd be all over you in a flash and trying to figure out how to convince Spike that an alpaca rug is an office necessity."

His small chuckle eased the tension in both of them, and he covered her hand with his own.  "I had this whole…fantasy, I suppose, of how I envisioned this would turn out, and, I am very glad to admit, you have managed to take me completely and utterly by surprise.  Again.  Don't ever stop."

"That's me.  Surprise girl."  This was better.  This was as she'd dreamt it, as she'd dwelled on how their reunion would play out, this camaraderie that connected them at the same time as that underlying attraction.  Her fingers were burning under his, the heat of his knee enough to make her want to just chuck all those doctor warnings about being careful right out the window.  Instead, she leaned forward, and was pleased when he did the same, their lips touching and caressing in the tenderest of kisses.

"So…" he said when they finally parted.  "…do you think Spike might be hiring any time soon?"

*************

Spike whistled under his breath as he climbed the last of the stairs to his flat.  In spite of the agonizing limbo of his own personal life, seeing the glow in Red's cheeks, the adoration in Wesley's gaze when he looked at her, was enough to assuage the roughest edges from his mood, to educe the remnants of his own faith in Buffy.  Not that he still didn't think that Wesley was a complete nutter for putting his trust in Faith's aim, but he had to give the man credit where credit was due.  He did what he thought he had to be done; it took balls of steel to risk the wrath of Red.

The pair would have it rough ahead of them.  A few trust issues, their need to stay anonymous or risk detection by Snyder…they'd have to work hard in order to make it succeed.  Somehow, though, he suspected that they would.

His arrival had happened sooner than Spike had expected.  When Ripper had called earlier that week, he'd intimated that Wesley's progress was coming along nicely, that the wound to his shoulder was healing quickly, but Spike had attributed his optimism as emblematic of his friend's growing connection to the pretty assistant.  Outside of Wesley himself, _she_ was the one who'd been the strongest proponent for the plan's success, her confidence gradually emigrating to that of his friend even before they'd placed a foot into Heaven.  Ripper had even been the one to find the body they would need for the switch, although how he'd managed to do it in a town he hardly knew, Spike wasn't sure he wanted to know.

But Wesley was going to be a good member of his team, of that he was certain.  Sure, he was going to have to stay in the background of things, keep his mug out of the limelight, but he'd been doing that for years, really.  With Red at his side, it was almost exciting considering what the duo might be capable of.

And fuck if Spike wasn't drooling over the chance to master the ex-fed's little pen trick.

Though his mind was jumping around as he pushed the door open to his floor, it stilled almost as soon as he emerged into the dimly lit corridor, his body halting at the same time.  Goosebumps erupted across his arms, the hair standing up on the back of his neck as he breathed in the heavy air.

It couldn't be.  It had to be his overactive imagination supplanting Red's good news with his own wishes.

Except…

He took another breath, this time deeper, and closed his eyes as he drank down the scent.

It _had_ to be.  He'd been right about it before.  There was no way he could be wrong about it this time.

Before he could move, the soft tread of a footstep whispered in his ear and he opened his eyes in time to see a familiar blonde head peer from around the corner.  She smiled when their gazes met, stepping into his full view with an easy grace.

"Howdy, stranger," Buffy said.

His heart was in his throat, pounding and pulsing and reminding him of just what it felt like to be alive.  Or it could've been Buffy's presence.  That was certainly a viable option as well.

"You're here," he managed to croak, dismayed at his less than eloquent response.

She didn't reply.  Instead, she stepped forward, the sway of her hips riveting his attention just as much as the shine in her eyes.  She was radiant, golden hair loose in waves about her shoulders, the white straps of her sundress only accentuating the curve of her breasts.  It took a moment for it to dawn on Spike that he'd never seen her look so…carefree before, and silently thanked whatever powers that be for giving that to her.

"So…" she said matter-of-factly as she approached, "…did you?"

No context for the question.  No hint of what she could be asking lying in the green depths of her gaze.  "Did I what?"

Closer now, and he swore he could practically feel the heat coming off her bare skin.  "Dream of me," she elaborated.  She came to a stop before him, an expectant cant of her mouth---and how was it he could never seem to stop staring at that lower swell when she curved her lips that way?---making her appear younger than her years.

His response didn't come in words.

Head awhirl, the stray irrational thought flitting across his consciousness---_guess Red's not the only one with the surprise arrivals today_---Spike did what he'd been wanting to do since being ushered out of Heaven without even getting to speak to her.  He reached forward and curled both hands around her waist to tug her hard into his embrace, crushing her to his chest as his lips came down to hers.

_Too long, too long, it's been too long_, his inner child chanted, and for once, Spike let the mantra play out as he concentrated on the taste of her, eschewed any sense of decorum to cling mercilessly to her lips, searching and biting and drowning and _BuffyBuffyBuffy_ pounding inside his skull.

Her body was just as resolute as Buffy's fingers clawed into the lapels of his coat, yanking him down just as he pulled her up.  The fullness of her skirt allowed her leg to sneak around his, and when Spike felt the soft heat of her pelvis forging against his erection, he twisted automatically to press her against the wall, hands dropping to her bottom to scoop her up.

"Spike," Buffy gasped, even as she wrapped her legs around his lean hips.  "You've got…"  She squeaked when his blunt teeth latched onto the pulsing vein in her neck, sucking at the hollow as if it was his life sustenance.  "…neighbors," she managed to finish.

"Sod the neighbors," he growled.  The salty tang of her flesh was merging with the elixir of her scent to madden his senses.  How had he lasted two weeks without her? he wondered as his nails raked along the underside of her thigh in their search to find skin bereft of fabric.  Never again, he'd never let her go again, not even if he had to follow her to the bowels of hell itself in order to be in her presence.  She had brought light into his darkened day; to go without again would be akin to suicide.

"Spike…" she tried again, fainter this time as her defenses weakened.  "…please…"

It was the please, of course, that did him in.

Tearing his mouth away from the delicate swell of her breast, Spike lifted his head to see her desire-darkened eyes gazing back at him and watched mesmerized as her tongue darted out to lick at the fine sheen of perspiration along her upper lip.  "Not fair, luv," he groaned, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from swooping in for a taste of it himself.

Her fingers tangled in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.  "So is it fair to guess that those dreams were of the wet variety?" Buffy teased.

"What do you bloody think?"

"I think…that if you don't get me into your apartment soon, that little old lady who's been watching me sit outside your door for the last two hours is going to get a free show, and frankly, I'm not completely convinced her heart could take it."

Before releasing his grip, Spike leaned forward and captured one last kiss from her unsuspecting mouth.  "Don't think you're gettin' off so easy," he warned afterward, easing her down.  His fingers coiled with hers and he practically began to drag her toward his apartment.  "Once we're on the other side of that door, all bets are off."

He stopped in his tracks before they reached the door, frowning as he scanned over the empty hallway.  "Where's all your kit, Buffy?" he asked, glancing down at her.

"You want the long answer or the short answer?"

"Which one am I goin' to like better?"

The few seconds she paused to reply dampened his mood more effectively than a bucket of cold water.  "New York," she finally said, but when he pulled his hand back to take a step away from her, she hastened to add, "But it'll be coming.  Fast.  I promise."

"So, this is…what?  A little holiday to scratch your itch?"  The coldness of his tone surprised him, but the ache in his heart was all too real.  Almost a week without contact from her, and then a sudden appearance on his doorstep sans suitcases.  It didn't bode well on the permanence he'd hoped they achieve once she came to California.

The sudden flare of pain in her eyes was quickly replaced by a cool and controlled anger.  "Be careful, Spike," Buffy warned.  "Those assumptions you keep jumping to run alongside very steep cliffs.  One of these days, you might just end up missing the edge and I hear tell it's a _long_ way down."

"What do you expect me to think?  No luggage tells me you don't plan on stickin' it out very long---."

"No, no luggage tells you I was in such a hurry to get out here and see you that I begged Jenny to finish up the arrangements to ship it out," she countered.  "And if you'd trust me for half a second so that I could've told you that, maybe you wouldn't be acting like such a jerk, you…jerk."

It took a moment for her words to sink in, the muscles in his jaw rippling with tension.  "Jenny?" he finally repeated, and wondered why it was so hard to believe in them when he had the proof of it standing right in front of him.

"Yeah," she affirmed.  Her voice was softer.  "She called me last night to tell me Wesley was heading back here today.  And I thought…why don't I just go?  All the legal stuff is mostly done, and Giles and Jenny are taking care of all the other loose ends.  What does a couple dresses and a few photo albums really mean in comparison to getting to be with you quicker?"  The hurt was coming back, but she lifted her chin in defiance of it.  "I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"I was.  I _am_."  Exasperated, Spike ran his fingers through his hair, his head ducking in his shame.  "Fuck, Buffy, do you have any idea how barmy I've been goin' back and forth on whether or not I should just hop the next flight to the Big Apple and say screw Snyder's contract?  It's been so long since we even talked---."

"It hasn't been that long."

His eyes were level with hers then.  "Hundred forty-seven hours at lunchtime.  So, a hundred forty-eight up to now.  'Cept…the last one doesn't count now, does it?"

Her mouth opened to speak, but it took a moment for anything to come out.  "I was just…trying to get everything done," she said.  "I didn't think---."

"No, you didn't.  And neither did I, not really.  But then…thinkin's never been our strong suit, now has it?"  Spike didn't wait for an answer.  He just stepped forward and took her face between his hands, pulling her to him so that his forehead rested against hers.  "Don't mind the prattling of a useless git," he murmured.  "I'm just glad you're finally here."

"Me, too," she whispered.  They were silent for a minute, each breathing in the other, before she said, "Do you think we can maybe go inside before that old lady neighbor comes out and pokes me again with her umbrella?  One more time, and I think I'm going to have to poke her back, show her how it feels."

He chuckled, pulling away.  "Next time you see the old bat, you just pull a face, like this," he said, baring his teeth and pretending to bite at her.  Buffy rolled her eyes at his antics, but there was a smile on her lips.  "The old biddy can't stand it.  Always sends her packing."

"And you know, something tells me that it just won't quite have the same effect with me as it does with you."

"So…" Spike said as he fumbled with the key in his lock.  "…you came in on the same flight as Wesley?"

Buffy nodded.  "We called Xander last night and asked him for the pick-up from the airport.  We kind of wanted to surprise you two."

Pushing the door open, he stepped back to allow Buffy to enter first.  "Think that was one thing that got accomplished, all right," he commented, and followed her inside the flat.

She had stopped inside the doorway, green eyes scanning the meager furnishings of the room---the worn-out couch, the lounger with the sagging springs, the curtainless lone window allowing the California sunshine to come streaming through the glass.  "OK," she said.  "First things first?  You have no right to _ever_ comment on my stuff again, because this?"  Her hand gestured to encompass the surroundings.  "Unless you're specifically going for that junkyard pastiche look, you are the _last_ person to ever be giving decorating advice."

"Hey!" he bristled in mock indignation.  "For someone knockin' about town without a bed to call her own, maybe you shouldn't be so hard on the current arrangements, luv."

She looked up at him, eyes over-wide in innocence.  "You want me to go?" she asked, and then turned toward the door.  "OK---."

"Don't think so," Spike growled.  His arm caught her around the waist and pulled her back into the apartment, his heel lashing out to slam the door behind them as he carried her into the bedroom and dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed.  "We're not doin' that song and dance again so soon here."

Laughing, Buffy rolled out of his reach when he tried to press her into the mattress, her full skirts momentarily blinding him in her speed.  She ended up on the other side of the bed, staring at the missing glass of the window.  "OK, what is it with you and windows?" she asked good-humoredly.  

"What?  Just haven't had a chance to fix it yet, is all."

"When did it happen?"

"Just before I left for New York."

She looked down at him with raised brows.  "I guess if I was looking for a Mr. Fix It type, I'd be out of luck, huh?"

"I can fix it.  I just…haven't.  Been a little busy."  Her amused silence made him sigh as he collapsed back onto the bed.  "Those without windows of their own shouldn't be throwin' stones, methinks."

"And here I'm thinking that you fall into that category as well.  You don't have windows.  You just have big holes in your walls that lead outside."  She was smiling as she stretched out beside him, propping her head up on her hand to look down at him.  "I'll bet that between the two of us, we can make this pretty cozy.  A new window, some curtains so that we don't scare the neighbors, maybe a new chair---."

Spike shook his head.  "Nah, you're right.  It's no place for a dame like you.  Don't know what I was thinkin'---."

"It's _fine_," she said.  Lowering her head, Buffy brushed her lips across his temple.  "I'm just giving you a hard time.  Besides, you saw where I was living in New York.  I'm not exactly looking for the bigtime glamorous lifestyle, you know."

"Just want you to be happy, pet," he murmured, pushing back the hair that threatened to fall over her face.

"I'm here, aren't I?"  She nestled down into his shoulder, letting her fingers play over his chest.  "I'd say this is a huge step in the very right direction."

Spike let his eyes drift closed as the weight of her against his arm began returning the warmth their momentary scuffles had stolen from his flesh.  It was so easy to forget everything else when she was like this; nothing else mattered as long as they were together, as long as he had her near.  The torture of the past month---the misadventures in the Big Apple as well as the agony of being alone the past two weeks---seemed inconsequential in comparison, even though he knew escaping it entirely was out of the question.

"Outside of your stuff," he began, his voice low as his fingers began strumming a faint melody down the column of her spine, "things all settled back in the city?"

He felt her nod against his chest.  "The feds won the big battle about who got Angel, which Riley wasn't too happy about---."

"Riley?"

"That cop playing bodyguard.  Did I mention he was a fan?"

"Think you might've left that little detail out."  He made a mental note to have Giles run a check on the badge.  The last thing he needed was someone else turning into an obsessed Mr. Hyde trying to convince Buffy he was the next best thing since sliced bread.

"Last I heard, the feds still had Angel locked up and Giles seemed to think everything was going to stick.  Snyder wanted to bring you in when they couldn't find Wood---."

"Ripper never said anything about that."

"That's because he talked him out of it.  Well, him and Lindsey.  That lawyer's a piece of work.  I'm just glad he's on our side because the way he's going after that Lilah Morgan?  Not someone you really want to piss off."

After a moment, he asked, "Dru didn't give you any more trouble, did she?"

"Not me, but she sure made the cops and feds get hot under the collar."  Buffy lifted her head and rested her chin on his chest so that she could look into Spike's face.  "Even after getting shot by him, she refused to have any charges pressed against Angel.  And here I thought _I_ was the stupid one when it came to him."

The last was intended as a joke---both of them knew that---but the lingering pain behind her eyes sent a flash of guilt through his gut.  "You're not…mad at me for not tellin' you about him sooner…are you?" he questioned quietly.

"No," she replied, just as quiet.  "I was mad you didn't trust me enough to tell me about his little note, but the other…?"  She shook her head, but when she spoke again, her tone was bitter.  "I probably wouldn't have believed you anyway.  I couldn't wrap my brain around the fact that he could kill his own dad.  How could you have possibly thought I'd begin to accept the idea that he let my mom and Dawn die, too?"

There was nothing he could say that would make her regret at being suckered by Angel's good boy act any easier, so Spike held his tongue, concentrating on the way her hair felt between his fingers as he continued to stroke it.  In spite of how well he felt he knew her already, he wasn't daft enough to think that there wasn't miles for them to go, and the thought of getting to explore all the nooks and crannies---and damn if even that sounded sexual to him---of Buffy Summers thrilled his bones to the marrow.  

"Whatever it is you decide you want," he heard himself saying, "you know I'm goin' to do whatever it takes to help you get it, right?  Not like Wilkins did, but…well, you know what I mean.  I love you, Buffy."

"I love you, too, Spike," she whispered.  "Do you think…maybe…you could take me to Sunnydale for a day or two?  I haven't been there since…and I haven't seen…"

Aware of just how hard it was for her to even say the words, Spike silenced her with a soft press of his fingers against her lips.  "Just tell me when, luv."

There was a pause.  "…Now?"

He was about to ask her what the rush was, when the possibilities of what she was suggesting began to tick over in his brain.  Get away for a few days, get someone to fix the place up so that it was more presentable by the time they got back, have some time to get reacquainted again in a more neutral setting.  Not that he considered Sunnydale the perfect solution, but in the way of plans, it was a good one.  There wasn't any work to be had at the moment that might get in the way, and even if there was, Spike had no doubt that Red would be asking for time off anyway.  She and Wes had their own bit of reacquainting to do.

"We'll need to do a spot of shopping first," he said, sitting up and pulling Buffy across his lap.  "Pick you up some glad rags 'til your stuff arrives."

Her arms looped around his neck and she pressed her lips to his in a kiss that sent shivers down Spike's spine and made him wonder if they really had to push off at that _exact_ moment in time.  "Thank you," she breathed.  "Not for the shopping, but for the…you know."

"Anything for my beautiful Buffy."

Whatever it took, he was ready to face it head on, to tackle whatever life decided to throw at them next and take it down, whether by hook or by crook.  

It was going to be a hard road; between the pair of them, they had enough history and issues to fill Hedda Hopper's column for a decade.  And he'd have to do something about how his mouth had a tendency to run off and spout its own thing, even when his head was screaming at it to stop.  There was more about Buffy that he didn't know than he did, but of one thing he was so certain, he'd stake his own life on it being true.

Wherever the road led…with Buffy in his life, it would all be worth it.

The End

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  It's done.  I can't believe it's done.  My first AU and a story that makes me not want to stop.  But there it is.  Thank you to everyone who has been reading; I hope you've enjoyed the ride.  Special thanks to angstchic, who asked me questions that I'm convinced made the story better; to Char, for all her vociferous support; to Imzadi, whose consistent feedback regarding characters I'd never written before helped mold the paths they took; and to Tracy, Tammy, Terri, Kristine, Kallysten, Josephine, and all my wonderful friends at LJ for their support and encouragement on this long and wonderful journey.  Before anyone starts asking, yes, I would very much love to do a sequel to this and probably will, but it won't be up any time soon.  I have too many other stories in the pipeline that need to get done first, the next of which, _Promise of Frost_, I should start posting within a week or so.  So, without further ado…here's lookin' at you, kid. :)


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